


On This Ship We Set Sail

by artvinsky



Series: On the High Seas [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Action/Adventure, All the ancestors and descendants in one continuity, Colonialism, Drama, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Pirates, Templars and Assassins don't exist., Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 23:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artvinsky/pseuds/artvinsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s the Ghost of the North Seas!” someone screams. The Aquila is a notorious pirate vessel that's been harassing the British for as long as Desmond can remember and he's rescued by them, but for what reason? He learns that not all pirates foul cheaters and that some merely sail for the thrill and the freedom of the sea. But what of the British Navy that discovers that he isn't as dead as they think him to be? Pirate!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [On This Ship We Set Sail](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/16203) by artvinsky. 



_Four days after. The Aquila._

The first man Desmond sees when he rouses from his sleep is a hard-faced man staring through him with distant eyes and only a single arm. It is dark and the lantern strikes light from behind the man seated beside him, and he wishes that he can bring himself to fall asleep once more. Instead he stares unknowingly at the man’s stump of a left arm, wondering how he had lost it. He moves on to examining the room he finds himself in, seeing medicines and ethers lining the shelves and scrolls, maps, and tomes piled in stacks in every inch of the floor.

“You are awake,” the man beside him mutters, his sharp gaze now focusing back at Desmond. He wants to squirm, to turn away, but his body reacts and he feels pain shooting up his from his abdomen and his chest. His throat begins to burn with the tell-tale signs of upchucking. Fortunately, the other man quickly holds a wooden bucket to his mouth to do his business, quicker than Desmond thinks it is possible for a lame man to move. The man, a doctor it seemed, sneers at him in an unfamiliar accent. “Do not move around too much, sir lest you wish more the rest of your insides to leave your wracked body.”

He heaves and wipes his mouth and his sweat coated brow before falling back into the blankets and pillows which he’s risen from. In his hazed stupor, he doesn’t realise the doctor speaking to him in quiet tones as he returns the bucket under his cot.

“My brother’s life better be worth yours, Mister Miles.”

For a moment, he remembers nothing and he feels indignant but not surprised. He’s taken lives of many men, both of sea and of land, of armies and of civilians. Is this doctor’s brother so different?

But then he remembers. He remembers the high ringing his ears generated when the walls of Fort George had been blown to bits. He remembers the soldiers waving their muskets in terror, fleeing the fire and leaving him with his head tied to the noose and his hands ties behind his back. He remembers seeing Governor Vidic’s face the last time, the old man’s powdered wig skewed as his soldiers take him away to safety. He remembers turning down the deal to join them before that, earning him the target at the gallows in the first place.

And he remembers himself being rescued, his face breathing in a man’s tattered leather coat and passing out to the sound of the walls collapsing and another man screaming in agony and telling them to go and leave him before the whole place goes down. When he stares back into the doctor’s piercing eyes, it is as though the man’s read his mind. He turns away in shame, knowing that an innocent died trying to save him from his death sentence.

Kadar is the name of the doctor’s brother. He knows and it is not from asking. He remembers his rescuer yelling the man’s name before he passed out.

“I offer my sincerest apologies, Doctor-”

“Malik.” It is curt and Desmond understands his bitterness. He pushes himself out of his chair and pulls the blankets up to Desmond’s chin smoothly with his one hand before taking off. “Rest, Mister Miles. I’m off to inform the Captain of your awakening and please, try not to expel the rest of your stomach out trying to move. It would be difficult enough for me as it is to clean up any sort of mess.”

Desmond breathes in the blanket, rattled by the doctor’s very clear malcontent for him.

“How long have I been out?” he coughs.

“This is the fourth day. Again, as I’ve said, rest, Mister Miles.”

He cannot bring himself to fall back asleep and instead he pulls the blanket up to his head, wishing not to look at the dark, dustiness of the clinic any further. He wonders what has happened since the day he was meant to be sentenced, and he wonders why on Earth these men would rescue him of all people. He’s heard of the Aquila before, coined the _Ghost of the North Seas_ , by his captain at the time, Daniel Cross, who never could follow the impossibly fast ship and take it down as it was meant to be. It was a pirate ship after all, known for looting and plaguing Crown’s troops to the point that it’s become a problem.

And now he finds himself being taken care of on it, but for what reason?

When he hears boots walking about towards him, he pulls his blanket down to see the doctor and a beast of a man, clothed in a simple yet fine blue coat with what appeared Native motifs on his sleeves, walking back into the clinic. He can only assume that this is the notorious Captain of the Aquila that’s been commanding this ship for as long as Desmond’s can remember.

“Thank you, Malik. Is it all right if I speak with him alone?”

The Captain’s voice is soft-spoken and gentle. If he wants to be honest, it is not what he expected considering the ship’s reputation. Malik waves him away and retreats when the Captain takes the chair and sits on it, leaning forward on the backrest with his arms. _Odd_. When he tries to sit up, the Captain nudges him back down into his cot instead.

“Please Mister Miles, it is not best for you to move around. There is only so much a roll of bindings can do to keep your ribs healing well and intact.”

“Thank you, Captain…?”

“Connor, Connor Kenway. Just Connor is all right, Mister Miles. We refer not to titles but to names on this ship.”

_Odd._ Not only does the name _‘Kenway’_ sound familiar to him, some captains and authorities would relish and thrive on the title. He finally manages to look up at Connor’s face and is more than surprised to see not an old man wise with lines of experience on his face but a young man instead. Well, younger than he was at least. There are speckles sprayed on the Captain’s dark face and his eyes, while they bear into Desmond, are not menacing nor intimidating, merely curious and somewhat familiar to him.

“Why am I here, Mister Kenway- er, Connor?”

“Because we extricated you from an attacked we launched on Fort George at the time of your execution.”

“But why?”

“Because we were contracted into doing so by a good friend of my father’s. He had paid us a hefty sum to assist us in our further exploits.”

Desmond scowls, if he hasn’t been serving for one company, he’s forced to serve on another. It makes him sick, thinking that he’s been passed around between these brigades for the whole of his commission. He feels like a piece of meat because of it.

“It is not for the reason you think, Mister Miles. We serve no army, and we take instead to loot them and keep them at bay. You were saved because your father had asked us personally.”

“W-what?” Desmond blurts. He does not expect that, he does not expect that his father of all people would want him safe. Not after leaving him when he was but a teenager in the past. Their relationship had been rocky to say the least, and he honestly has no idea what his father’s been up to but never did he think that he’d still be in his father’s good graces. That man has never kept contact with him and here Captain Kenway was, telling him that he was rescued because of that same man he ran away from.

“General William Miles has asked us to save you as he knew the date of your execution,” Connor answered him, clearly unfazed by his abrupt, one-worded questions. “He is your father, he’s bound to care about you.”

There is a strange tone in Connor’s voice that Desmond picks up, a sort of longing and regret. He doesn’t question it and instead he presses his face against his blanket, dreading the thought of facing his father again. Not after nine years.

“You seem troubled.”

“I am. I may have fought in battles for both the Navy and the Army but facing my own father is something that I dread.”

Even when Connor is quiet, Desmond knows that he understands.

“He said that he wants you safe, Desmond.”

“Of course he did,” he bites out. The Captain begins to protest when he throws the blanket off of himself, and shakily pushing himself from the bed. His toes curl when his bare feet hit the dusty wooden floor and he hisses as he clutches at his bandaged side. The air is cold on his bare shoulder. “I need to get out of here-”

“Mister Miles I don’t think I can let you do that-”

“I mean this room, Captain. I can’t breathe, I need fresh air. Please take me to the deck.”

Connor obliges hesitantly, taking off his coat and setting it on Desmond’s shoulders before supporting the limping man as they walk out of the dark room.

* * *

_Three days before. Kenway Manor, Boston._

Haytham Kenway feigns detached respect concerning many things, being a gentleman after all.  He does not panic when a business deal goes awry nor does he panic when one his convoys come under fire and scrutiny by the Crown or the Continentals. While he sends his best men to right a mistake and get the job done, sometimes he goes himself, to personally see to it that the mistake is not repeated. His people respect and fear him for that.

Even after he finds out that his son captains the most notorious ship that plagues the north seas, he can only smile in pride. Not that he will ever show Connor, any semblance of love from any side between them is surely a blow to their dignities. It is easier to remain antagonistic towards each other.

But when a close friend of his turns up at his estate at midnight, soaking in the rain and freezing to death, Haytham notices himself caring far too much for his own good. He dismisses his own servants to attend to his guest, who is shaking by the fireplace and staring up at him with fear only the likes of a parent can give.

Something has happened to William Miles’ son, Desmond. The same Desmond who ran away from William nine years ago, and in turn became famous of his mastery of the cannons that they utilise at the British Navy, enough to hold a reputation of taking down Abstergo’s sixth fleet in one sitting and in one bottle of rum. Needless to say, Haytham was very proud of Desmond that day, seeing as Abstergo was and still is his biggest competition when it came to arms dealing. Unfortunately, William couldn’t share his enthusiasm seeing as his son was with the British Navy, the very men his commanders were trying to drive out from this land.

Haytham has seen Desmond grow up. After all, he and William had been friends for almost thirty years now. He wishes for what William and Desmond had with his own son: time and beginnings.

“What’s happened, William?” Haytham asks as he hands the other man a blanket and a cup of tea. “Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”

“They’ve taken him, Haytham.”

“Who’s taken him?”

William shakily brings the tea to his mouth, his voice flat in defeat. “The British Navy has Desmond. I’ve heard from a couple of my people that while he’d been tending to a bar in Jersey, they came for him with a business proposition.”

“Hasn’t he finished his time with them, though? He’s done enough damage to the Colonies’ soldiers as it is. I’m guessing they needed him for more work?”

“When he turned them down he was charged with high treason against the Crown. He’s to be hung at the gallows in New York three days from now.”

Haytham’s lips curl unpleasantly at the thought. He’s moved his business to the New World because of the freedom they can give him here, free from the overbearing authorities of the Crown and he's finally able to assist people who were in need of his services. The Sons of Liberty and their fight for freedom. Freedom is something that he values over his own business and he makes sure that his workers and servants have the right to it. But now the British come trampling on William’s son, persecuting him for exercising his right to make a choice even when he’s already given them his time. It is despicable, to say the least.

He knows what William needs his help for. Only he knows where to find Connor and that famed ship of his and the exemplary services that he offers. He sets down his tea and looks out into rain outside his study window.

"If we ride now, we might be able to catch him before he departs to God knows where,” he says stiffly and William nods, rising from his seat. Haytham holds a hand up to halt him and his grey eyes bear into William. “Connor values his rewards, William. No doubt you will be asked to pay a large sum in exchange for Desmond’s rescue.”

“I don’t have a choice, Haytham. If I could, I’d send my own men to save him but that would be suicide.”

No, William’s commanders would not approve of that. Desmond is a grown man who’s made his decision and now he is suffering the consequences of it, no matter how unfair they are. To send Patriot soldiers to rescue a former British serviceman from execution would be downright ludicrous.

“Stay here, I’ll ready the horses, and I’ll get one of my attendants to get you a better coat. I can’t have you soaked to the bone on the way there.”

“You have my gratitude, Haytham.”

But as he walks away, he too is worried for Desmond’s safety. He remembers playing with Desmond and taking care of him when he was but a small child. The toddler sometimes taking his hat and hiding under his cape as they played pirates when Haytham visits William’s residence on occasion. Haytham wishes he could have had that sort of time with Connor, but then he’d been too late.

Twenty years too late.


	2. Chapter 2

_Three days before. The Green Dragon Tavern, Boston._

Haytham knows of the Aquila’s crew members, in fact, they are one of his most valued customers. A young marksman named Clipper Wilkinson and an Italian by the name of Ezio Auditore often pick up the cargo for Connor’s ship on a regular basis. Sometimes Haytham greets them cordially, asking about their latest exploits.  But he does not necessarily need to share that fact with the Continental Army. Fortunately for his business, William is far too worried about Desmond to care about the legality of his actions serving pirates.

The downpour eases into a drizzle when they arrive at the Green Dragon and Haytham gestures for William to follow him, making sure to hide any trace of his authority as a Continental in a tavern overrun by redcoats and lobster backs. Quickly, William pulls out a faded kerchief and ties it to obscure the lower half of his face.

Immediately, the all too familiar miasma of alcohol and unbathed, clammy human bodies escapes when Haytham pulls open the door to the tavern, but he doesn’t gag neither does William. The fiddle and flute ease the density of human conversation that floods the place, and both of them literally find themselves in a sea of red. Haytham’s eyes narrow to a leer when the redcoats’ eyes find themselves staring at the pair of them, in fear and intimidation.

William behind him tenses when they hear two British soldiers talking about the reason for their arrival to this place. “Ya hear that, Tom? Miles is off to the gallows soon. You’d think they’d treat him better since he was one of us, I mean, considering what he did to Washington’s weapon supply while he was in Philadelphia.”

“Tha’s the key word though, innit? He _was_ one of us until he marooned himself off to an island since he din’t have the balls to own up to Cruel Ol’ Cross he worked for-”

“Easy, William, easy,” Haytham appeases, pulling his compatriot from the myriad of British soldiers crawling from the bar, some too drunk to even sit up straight, their heads lolling on to the counter. “Keep up.”

When they climb the stairs on to the next level of the tavern, it is considerably much quieter yet they are faced with two rather intimidating men standing guard at the top of the stairs with a pint of ale between them. Haytham takes off his tricorne and gives a small nod to them while William watches from behind in partial curiosity.

“Ah, Master Kenway, none of us thought you were one to venture into taverns in the wee hours of the morning,” Stephane, the Aquila’s Canadian cook, greets him as he raises his pint. The other man, his face half-hidden behind a black kerchief and a low tilted tricorne, remains silent, and Haytham notices that the ring finger on his left hand is missing.

“Men, I wish to speak to your captain, it is of a venture which I believe you cannot turn down.”

Immediately, Stephane and the other crew member, whom Haytham knows as Connor’s foreign quartermaster, move aside and tail him and William to where he knows Connor usually situates himself amongst his crew. He knows that Connor does not partake yet many of his crew members do, and as a good captain he has to cater to the needs of his ship’s faction.

Visibly, Connor stiffens at the sight of him. On his left is the one-armed surgeon, nursing a cup of warm tea and his right, who Haytham assumes to be the surgeon’s younger brother judging by the likeness present between their faces. They fall silent from the tales of their homelands when they see William behind Haytham.

“Son.”

“Father.”

“Your amicability never ceases to amaze me, Connor.”

“What is it that you want?” Connor ignores his jibe and gestures for both of them to take a seat. He looks over at William who pulls down his kerchief from his face and eyes the group warily. “And why have you brought a Continental General upon us?”

“I need your help,” William speaks up. “My son is in trouble, many a seamen of these waters know him as Miles of the British Navy.”

“Miles of the British Navy?” The one-armed surgeon’s younger brother pipes up, his accent foreign to Haytham’s and William’s ears. The surgeon smiles, amused by his brother’s keen interest. “But you are a Continental general. He has destroyed many of your resources throughout this ongoing war. Why would you choose to help him?”

“We do not question why, Kadar. We question if we will be paid for our services,” the quartermaster speaks, breaking the silence that William answers with.

Connor nods, and while his face betrays very clear a generosity that Haytham still doesn’t know the origin of, he speaks authority towards William, stating the rules of their craft. “And we will get the job done, sir. We have never failed before. All we ask is that you uphold your end of the deal.”

Haytham blinks as the heavy chink of a bag of coin is thrown from the inside of William’s coat. Before any of them speak about the lack of quantity that he presents, he continues to pull out more small gold bullions from his pockets, making Haytham wonder how he is able to move around in the first place.  But he doesn’t question William, he never did.

“There’s plenty more where that came from, Captain.” William’s voice is steady, determined, hopeful even.

“This is enough for us,” Connor says, glancing at his crewmembers who stare at the gold curiously. Haytham notes that there is no greed in their eyes, which is truly odd for men of their profession.

“This is more than enough,” the surgeon says to which Kadar and Stephane nod. “And you are willing to pay more for the safety of your son, General?”

“If you have ever been a father, you would understand.” When Haytham acknowledges this this, Connor’s head snaps up in surprise. He pretends not to notice but a smug smile graces his lips nonetheless, it was always interesting to send his son’s mind into disarray. They all turn to Connor for approval.

“We will speak of this on the ship, General Miles.” Connor stands, which is a signal for the surgeon and Stephane to empty their drinks. “Are both of your ready to ride?”

And on the way out, as the sea of red parts for them, for Connor mostly because of his intimidating demeanour, Haytham hears William scoff behind him. “I can’t believe I’m consorting with pirates to save my son—” he looks back when William grabs his shoulder, an unexpected expression of thrill present on his face, “I can’t believe your son’s a pirate.”

“Oh, believe me, William. It’s a very good business venture.” And William actually outright laughs at that, earning them a concerned look from Connor and his crew.

* * *

  _Five days after, The Aquila._

After Desmond’s deems himself fit to walk around the ship, Malik expels him from the clinic like he was yesterday’s breakfast. While his body protests, he himself is grateful that he doesn’t have to deal with the surgeon’s bitter jabs and remarks every single time he wakes up. He wants to sympathize, but how can he when he’s never known ties like brothers are known to share?

Instead, Connor guides him to lodge with their navigator and Ezio Auditore is pleasant enough, even offering to help change his bindings as Malik so hissed in their direction. Connor bids him good-bye for the moment, urging him to take care of himself in that soft-spoken voice of his. To be quite honest, Desmond is touched by the captain’s concern.

“ _Comandante_ cares for his crew members, Signor Miles,” Ezio says as he helps Desmond into bed, fluffing up the pillows for him. “He is a kind-hearted young man and his generosity is quite infectious.”

“How old is he?” Desmond asks out of genuine curiosity. The Aquila is, as its moniker suggests, very much a phantom of the seas and impossible to get any information on. Right now, it seems to him that it is but a normal vessel albeit possessing an assortment of many men from different nations to man it. And there is nothing remotely foul about it either, not like normal pirates vessel appear to be. It seems that rumours do travel like Chinese whispers in the Colonies. “And how did he come to man this ship? He’s quite young to have commandeered it.”

“He inherited it from the previous captain five years ago when he was seventeen. Some of us have known him before he took over and we had no qualms about him commanding this ship,” the navigator says as he settles himself in front of his maps, fiddling with his compass as he pushes open the window to let the air inside. “Even Altair didn’t raise his voice when Signore Faulkner decided let Connor take the wheel.”

“Altair?” The name seems familiar to him.

“He is Faulkner’s first mate turned Connor’s first mate,” Ezio supplies, leaning back into his chair. “He has been on this ship longer than any of us and his intuition is _eccellente_ but he seemed not to have any problem with Connor. Many of us thought he would start a mutiny but it seems we were wrong to judge his character. Of course, we couldn’t argue with Messere Faulkner at the time, Connor’s navigating is impeccable, if a little bit mad.”

“This ship reputation precedes it,” Desmond huffs.

“And so does yours,” Ezio laughs and leans forward to speak to him. “Enough about this ship. Now we must talk about your history. Many of us know of your famed barrages, Desmond, or shall I say, Miles of the British Navy.”

“And they are what they are— barrages. There is honestly nothing more to them.” Desmond frowns, remembering his time with Cross, of how he’s excelled in manning the cannon, the swivel gun and directing his men who use it, but it is not something he enjoys Killing and destroying things is not something Desmond takes pleasure in. Cross on the other hand relished it and wanted him to keep firing even after the Continentals have retreated. He finds it odd how people become distinguished regardless of what they do and how they do it.

“Yes, but you are young, younger than most of us on this ship at least. None of us possess the prowess of the cannon that you so provided for the British.”

“I merely wanted to be good at something. I wanted to be something that my father never expects me to be.” He sees Ezio’s eyes shift into some form of understanding. “I don’t understand how he wants me safe when I worked for the men he hates, I just don’t.”

“Your father has a way of showing he cares-”

“You’re the second one to tell me that, Mister Auditore—”

Their heads snap up when blaring of bells fill the lower cabins of the Aquila followed by the discord of boots and thudding all about them, the men of the ship hurrying to the deck. Before he even realises it, Desmond throws off his blanket, ignoring the searing pain that shoots up his chest and runs from the lodge to see the commotion. Ezio chases him, muttering curses and questions about how an injured man could move so quickly-

“IT’S THE BRITISH!”

Desmond hisses when he moves to the broadside, leaning over the reinforcements to get a good eye of the enemy that chases them under the harsh light of the noon sun.  He knows that flag waving in the air, the distinct three masts that stand tall, and its’ red sails taking the wind mercilessly to drive it. Red sails. Cross’ trademark.

He shrugs off Ezio’s grip on his arm and runs to the quarterdeck where Connor begins to yell out orders to his men as he throws the wheel to the right.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Desmond curses, the pain from his wounds fizzing out to the adrenaline that fuels him. Connor is taken aback halfway through an order for top speed when Desmond appears from the stairs.

“Desmond, get back to the cabins!”

“Captain, that’s _the Providence_ we’re facing! That’s my former captain’s ship, Cross’ ship!” They instinctively duck when the familiar blast of cannons ring into the distance, the shots then whizzing over their heads soon after. Connor hisses and yells at his men to ready the cannons and the usually silent quartermaster commanding the men to move in that foreign accent of his. “They’ll keep up the chase, Connor, and they’ll sink us! You don’t know how long Cross has been waiting to destroy this vessel!”

“Have you a better plan then?!” And for a split second, when Desmond tears his eyes away from the other ship to look back at Connor, he sees the captain genuinely asking for his aid, because he knows the enemy, he’d been the enemy at one point. Desmond nods and runs to the nearest swivel gun, so as he can assist.

“Destroy the masts with continuous chain shots to immobilize them but don’t you even think about getting close!” Desmond instructs while filling the ammunition of the gun, his wounds silent and numb. Connor nods and he hears him yell at his men to load the chain shot. He ducks as Connor steers the Aquila that it’s parallel to the Providence by a couple of hundred meters.

Desmond catches a glimpse of Cross on the wheel eyeing the Aquila hungrily. This encounter is possibly the closest his former captain will get because he sure as hell won’t let them sink this ship. The Providence is absolutely crawling with redcoats that they appear like ants teeming upon a fallen slice of bread, it disgusts him.

“DOWN!” Connor yells and all of them duck, round shots zooming over their heads and shaking the broadside. Quickly, Connor yells for them to fire at will, Desmond watching the chain shots swivel through the air before smashing into the red sails and masts of the Providence. The speed of Cross’ ship slows and Connor steers the Aquila from its broadside and out of the line of fire.

“Desmond!”

“Send round shots to the rudder side of the ship, that’s where they keep the ammunition and gun powder,” Desmond instructs, his mouth dry and his throat burning. “Blow holes through it then leave it to me!”

At this point, destroying the Providence is something Desmond actually feels excited for. He’s never found work for the Royal Navy this appealing, perhaps because of the rules and regulations that come with his work, or perhaps because Cross always has been a twisted bastard. In any case, he likes working with the Aquila better.

“FIRE!” Connor yells and they have to lower their heads from the scatter of wood, glass and shrapnel that blows from the Providence’s rudder. He sees some British soldiers staring at them in fright from the exposed gun deck, part of the mizzenmast damaged and cracking from their shots. Desmond steels himself and aims at the tell-tale red barrels of gunpowder that roll about haphazardly in the Providence’s gun deck and tiller.

He pulls the trigger and for a moment, he sees nothing and his ears begin ringing again.

He finds himself in Fort George, the walls collapsing, and his neck irritated from the rough rope of his noose. His wrists bleed where the rope cuts into them tightly and he finds himself unable to move when all the soldiers in red flee from the fire. Rubble and shrapnel embed themselves into his skin.

He falls and he looks up into the harsh light of the sun, hot white against the pure blue of the sky. Smoke rises from the corner of his eye, and he knows he succeeded. But still he hears nothing but the ringing. Connor kneels down at him, shading him from the sun, the captain scooping him into his arms. Connor tries to speak to him his eyes filled with worry, but he hears nothing.

Yet he feels the pain screaming at him in his chest, he feels his body wet and slick and it is not from sweat. He shakily brings a hand to his chest and finds his palm red with his own blood.

He laughs before the darkness claims him.

* * *

  _An hour after. Outside Fort George, New York._

He is on the halfway mark between sleeping and dying, and the only sensation Desmond feels pain. He cannot open his eyes but he can still hear.

“I’m sorry, Malik-”

“Sorry! You think your words can appease me, Altair?! My brother is dead and it’s because of _him!_ ”

Desmond feels the eyes of this Altair and Malik staring at him.

“Do not blame him, Malik. I have been careless, I promised that I would take care of Kadar as we went-” The sound of a blade sliding against a wooden surface cuts off Altair’s speech.

“Then tell me why I should not kill you now in exchange for him?” Malik’s voice shakes with rage, despair.

“Because you know that it will make no difference, Malik.”

Desmond sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that the name of the vessel Haytham boarded for his trip to Boston was called the Providence in the game, but for the sake of continuity, instead of it being a trade vessel, it's a warship Desmond's former captain, Daniel Cross, steers. It does have the potential to be a powerful ship considering its size, and God knows how many enemies it could have defeated when Desmond and Cross were working together.
> 
> Thank you for reading. :)


	3. Chapter 3

_Six days after. The Aquila._

Desmond finds himself awake when he feels a set of hands fixing his bandages and laying another roll of blankets over him to keep him warm. What he hears is muddled and his mind is reeling, but the distinct sound of water being poured into a cup can be heard.

He opens his eyes to see nothing. Blurs, lights, a haze of orange yet nothing definite.

He feels the hands helping him sit up and press the cup of water to his dry mouth and he drinks clumsily, feeling the water spill onto his chest.

His eyes begin to clear and is met by the sight of the usually silent and tricorne-garbed quartermaster, Altair, pulling the cup away, setting it on a barrel and drying the spilt liquid off of him carefully.

Desmond wants to protest, to push the man away but he is too weak, and his arms feel like lead— no, his entire body feels like lead and even the bandages around his chest feel as though they are crushing him.

“Careful, Miles,” Altair says, setting him back down in the cot. “You’ve been this close to dying in a span of a week twice, we would not want that to increase by you bleeding to death.”

He looks around to see that they’ve returned to Malik’s clinic, the maps and tomes on the floor having remained as messy as ever, and the dust on the walls still haven’t cleared. Though Malik is nowhere to be seen, Desmond can hear the distant thumps of many boots treading on the deck over their heads along with distant singing and merrymaking.

“Where is everyone?” He asks weakly, watching Altair grab a plate of bread and a small bowl filled with some sort of thick paste resembling mashed vegetables and nuts. The quartermaster dips the bread in the bowl and hands him a slice, to which he struggles to hold. The taste of it is foreign, much like Altair’s and Malik’s voices are to him, but not unwelcome. He finds himself taking the loaf of bread and the dip and feasting on it with a bit of effort. He has to admit that whatever this is he’s eating, it’s delicious.

“On the deck, celebrating.” Altair supplies, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the tattered posters of anatomy that line Malik’s walls. Desmond hears the smile in Altair’s voice at the last word.

“Celebrating what? And why aren’t you with them?”

Altair turns to him, an odd smirk on his face. “Victory over the British Navy, Miles. Though none of us would think it’d be over so quickly and precisely and it is all thanks to you and your stubbornness and skill. I offered to watch over you while they imbibe in the drink.”

Then he remembers yesterday, seeing Cross in the distance, manning the Providence and her red sails like a maniac, the ship teeming with redcoats like ants. He remembers aiming at the gunpowder deposit on the exposed gun deck, and then the explosion-the one that sent him back briefly to Fort George on the day of his hanging. He recalls Altair’s remorse and Malik’s grief and anger when they had argued in this very clinic in hushed tones after his rescue.

It was the day that Malik’s brother, Kadar, had died.

Desmond turns to Altair, his appetite lost when he chews down that last bit of bread. “You’re the one who pulled me out of Fort George, weren’t you? Malik’s brother was with you.”

“Aye, that was me-”

“Thank you. A thousand times, Altair, thank you.” When his throat begins to burn, he shakily reaches over to get the cup of water. While it is arms’ reach, he feels ill enough that Altair has to assist him. “I’m sorry for Kadar’s death. If you had left me there everything would still be as it is.”

“And your father would have lost a son.” He flinches at the tone the other man uses, it is cold, heartless. “Kadar’s death is a loss yes, but who is to say that change is a bad thing, Miles? Death is something that occurs and we cannot prevent it, only prolong the inevitable. Malik understands this. Had he not, I would not be here either.”

“A man is dead. How is that a good thing? You’ve known him much, much longer that you have me,” Desmond questions, wondering how on earth Altair can be so calm about this.

“I’ve seen the way you acted on deck yesterday, Miles. You revelled in taking down the Providence. You were calm while the rest of us panicked. Even Connor asked for your aid. Am I right in guessing that you find this crew and the captain much more pleasant company than from the British?”

“A-are you insinuating something?” Desmond sputters, feeling the heat warm his cheeks as Altair reads him like an open book.

“All I am saying is that, as the quartermaster of this vessel, I have no problem if you decide to come with us in our further exploits.” Desmond wants to wipe that smirk from Altair’s face, but he cannot deny that lofty smile and tone the other gives is a gem. Altair does not seem like the type to smile and jest and fling his authority about. He and Connor are alike in modesty. “A handful of the men topside believe that you are staying with us for good, Miles. Why else do you think they are celebrating? The Aquila is unbound from any authority and that, my friend, is part of its charm. Clipper looks up to you, you know, and I know Kadar would have done so as well.”

“What about my father?” Desmond asks, mostly to himself, trying to figure out any drawbacks to Altair’s reasoning.

“He said he wanted you safe, not home.” Altair looks away, his voice flat. “And if I recall correctly, he said that you had not been home in nine years. A lot of things change in over a decade, Miles.”

He wants to agree, he really does. But he is afraid of what his father might think of him when— if he decides to join these men. Pirates, of all people. It can’t have been any worse for William when he had found out that Desmond joined the British Navy. There is nothing for him back home, everything lost when he left all those years ago. Whatever it had been that’s lost, it seems impossible to salvage.

He phases out of his reverie when they hear boots treading louder to the clinic. Both of them raise their heads to see Connor looking into the clinic, an expression of quiet pride on his face. No doubt from the celebrating that’s been happening on deck.

“Altair, I need you to man the helm,” he says, not even trying to hide the laughter in his voice. “Stephane and Clipper want you up there to control Ezio, seems he’s lost it to the drink yet again. He’s been slurring his words in Italian for the past ten minutes while trying to kiss Malik.”

“Of course,” Altair laughs, rising from his seat and bidding his departure to Desmond.

“A moment, Altair,” Desmond says as he holds up the bowl with the foreign dip in it. “What is this?”

“It’s hummus.”

“It’s magnificent.”

“I’ll give my compliments to Malik, then. Rest well,” Altair bows and disappears from the clinic. Desmond sighs, finding himself eating more of the bread and foodstuff to sate his hunger as he watches Connor take a seat, arms set on the back rest as he leans forward.

“He told me that the men above think that I am to join when we get back,” Desmond says after a moment.

“That they do,” Connor replies with a shrug. “And I will not make them think otherwise. You’ve seen this life, and you’ve become part of it, briefly. Our current gunman idolizes you now. I would not have a problem with you allying with us, the ship’s taken minimal damage thanks to your tactics.”

Desmond blushes at that. While many of his comrades in the Navy thought he was the best thing that’s ever happened to the brigade, there’s something more genuine about these men believing in him. Something much kinder, much more welcoming.

“You said that my father is a good friend of yours,” Desmond says.

“Yes, he knew you as a child.” Connor’s voice shifts, and Desmond hears that longing again, however subtle Connor thinks it to be.

“What is his name?”

“Haytham.”

_He remembers the sun shining down on his father’s living room carpet, sending dust into the air as a fine mist. He hears himself giggling, a child’s giggle. He’d just had his sixth winter then. He runs, this Haytham’s hat threatening to swallow his head whole._

_He feels Haytham chasing after him as a caped fiend, spewing false threats of running off with his source of power, of how he’d stolen the ancient treasure of the Aztecs with his pirate hat and saber._

_He attempts to free himself when Haytham captures him in his arms, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. He laughs as he beats at the man’s back, seeing the hat fall to the carpeted floor._

_Then William arrives, removing him from Haytham. “Desmond, stop bothering our guest. Apologies, Haytham, really.”_

_“Oh, peace, William, let him have his fun, he’s just a child.” Haytham picks up his fallen tricorne and gives it to Desmond with a smirk. “Here, son, be a pirate for another hour, I’ll be back for it soon enough.”_

“I remember him,” Desmond sighs, his voice wistful. “We used to play pirates in my father’s house. I was six. You would have been three back then, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Connor answers, his voice strained. Desmond begins to regret asking, not wanting to have unearthed any ill memories for Connor in the first place. What he doesn’t understand is if Haytham had Connor for a son, how come Desmond’s never seen him? Their fathers seemed to be close enough friends for such exchanges.

“I hadn’t known him back then. My mother told me everything about him but I’d never actually seen him. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that we had actually met, and we did not have a good start either.”

“I won’t pry.”

“It’s all right. He and I share a— mutual compromise of sorts now.”

“How I’d like to have such a thing with my father,” Desmond scoffs, ignoring Connor’s side-eying him in worry.

“We are to make port in the morning where they will meet us. Perhaps you can speak to him about it.”

 

“Perhaps.”

* * *

 

_Three days before. The Aquila, Boston Harbour._

Haytham is more than impressed when he finally gets a good look at the Aquila. The robustness present in the iron reinforcements on the broadside and the number of cannons on the deck makes the compact-sized ship look all the more intimidating in Boston’s harbour even at the minimal light of the early morning. It is well hidden in plain sight, flying a clandestine flag and well-maintained sails.

The British seem not to suspect a thing.

When they walk the plank to get to the deck of the ship, Kadar and Stephane immediately head to the hold to awaken members of the other crew by Connor’s command. The rest of them take to pulling up a few barrels and cannons and sitting on them instead. William settles beside him on a cannon by the quarterdeck, his fists clenched. They are far away enough from Connor and his group to have a private conversation.

“Peace, William,” Haytham says, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Calm yourself enough to relay to them what you need. I don’t think Desmond would appreciate having to return home to a fear-ridden wreck of a father.”

He doesn’t expect William to laugh at this jibe. But what William says next is completely surprising. “He’s not returning home.”

“What do you mean he’s not returning home?” By now, Haytham senses that one of the other crewmembers is listening to their discussion. He looks over William’s shoulder to see the silent quartermaster inclining his head in their direction.

“I mean, he’s not going to return home, because there is no such thing left. Not for me, nor for him. It’s been gone for nine years now.”

“You’re being ridiculous, William.”

“I’m being realistic. What you and Connor have right now, it’s realistic. Considering you’ve only just known about him five or so years ago. You seriously think that he and I could go back to what he used to have? And it wasn’t much, Haytham. You managed to connect with him more than I’ve ever had. He rather liked it when you were around for visits.”

He hears jealousy in William’s tone, jealousy and regret. But he understands because he knows that William was a cold parent when Desmond was little, he's been witness to it. It was nothing personal against the boy, but after his mother’s death, the distance and detachment had been William’s coping mechanism. There had been reason for Haytham’s visits.

Desmond and Connor could have been the best of friends had Ziio told him before—

“I only want him safe. He doesn’t have to come home, but I’m still his father and I still care, though by now you know that I have one hell of a way of showing it.”

Haytham wants to respond that it gets better, from experience, but Connor walks over to them, his band of pirates situated and attentive to hear about their next exploit. He sees silent curiosity in his son’s eyes and he makes it a point to tell Connor later before he and William leave.

 

“General, we’re ready for you.”

* * *

 

_Six days after. The shipwreck of the Providence, off the coast of Connecticut._

When Captain Cross salvages an upturned boat and a handful of his men who were too terrified to abandon ship, he threatens to kill them and throw their corpses overboard if they don’t increase their pace and paddle back inland.

What scares them is not his flintlock but his laughter. It is high pitched and maniacal, and his eyes madder than they’ve ever been. None of them dare to speak and just continue thrusting the oars rhythmically into the water, letting their captain fill the frigid silence instead.

“The Aquila, we’ve been so close. So close, you ingrates! We could’ve taken them, then and there, but they had to attack. The Aquila doesn’t attack. It never did, you—” he grabs the collar of the nearest drenched soldier, and puts his pistol to the soldier’s temple. “When you were under me, did the Aquila ever attack at all?! Did it do any damage?!”

They watch the soldier, he is young, fresh from childhood, a conscript whose eyes begin to water out of fear. He doesn’t cry but the others who keep rowing know that he hasn’t been under Cross’s command long enough to know his history and grudge against the blasted pirate ship.

“Answer me or I’ll blast a hole into _your pretty little face,”_ Cross breathes into the soldier’s light hair. It is almost an intimate sight from their point to view if they take away the gun pointed at the young man’s temple.

“I-it hasn’t, sir. Not once,” the boy stammers. “It flees, as though c-captained by a c-coward, sir.”

They catch the soldier when Cross pushes him off and the small boat shakes, threatening them overboard.

“And this time it did! Haha, and it destroyed us!” Cross giggles, waving his pistol around playfully. “So what the fuck just happened there?! And it wasn’t just any goddamn attack—” he aims the gun at them, and they cease their rowing. “Who do we know and love so much is capable of destroying a ship, our ship, a British Navy ship, with that much regularity, men?! It’s like he did it with his eyes closed!”

One of them whisper. “M-Miles, sir-”

“Say that again.”

“M-miles, Captain. He was our master gunner.”

“ _DESMOND FUCKIN’ MILES, YOU COCKSUCKERS_. He’s alive-” when Cross points the pistol back at the young man and pulls the trigger, they could have sworn the young soldier’s pissed himself. But a bullet doesn’t go through, and there is no blood splattered against their faces and on the boat. Waterlogged pistol. Cross scoffs and throws the gun into the water. “What the hell are you frozen up there for? Row!”

They row until their weary arms ache, quickly, continuously, anything to get them away from their deranged captain as fast as possible. They remain silent, listening only to Cross’s tirade to himself.

“Miles, you son of a bitch. I didn’t think it was possible to enjoy killing someone twice yet here you are. Oh, this is rich.”


	4. Chapter 4

_One week after. The Davenport Homestead._

Haytham sighs, tightening his cape over his shoulders and exhaling out the frosty, winter air. He looks around, spotting villagers and sailors milling about readying to start their day, cold and frigid it might be.

It’s been ten days since he and William met Connor to help free Desmond, and a week since the actual date of the scheduled execution. They are meant to meet Connor and his group today, hopefully with Desmond in tow yet William is nowhere to be seen. The night before they’ve lodged at The Mile’s End, an inn doubling as a tavern present in Connor’s settlement. Haytham expected for William to be sitting in the tavern having breakfast or some such, but the man is nowhere, one of the innkeepers saying that he stepped out early.

He remembers riding to Valley Forge three days ago to meet with William, only to find out that he’s been let off by his commanders on grounds of his fraying morale and sanity. His gnawing concern for Desmond hadn’t been doing much good for the troops.

But when news of Fort George’s shelling had spread through the Colonies, both of them felt ill, both worrying for the safety of each of their sons. Of course, they know that it had been the Aquila that shelled Fort George, still, Haytham couldn’t help but worry.

But it isn’t much worse than what William’s going through.

As he walks through the settlement and greets the townspeople who pass by him, again he cannot help but feel pride for Connor. He was told by the tavern owners, Corrine and Oliver, that his son had been maintaining the town even before he had captained the Aquila, that Connor had sent many of them to this place if they wanted a better venture for their livelihoods.

Now the settlement boasts an economy better than the towns of Monmouth, Concord and Lexington combined. And it is also a hub for the Aquila’s crewmembers and their families, making the town so much more tightly-knit and interdependent on each other.

Haytham has no words for how proud he is. So he decides not to speak at all.

He finds William sitting on a rock overlooking the misty bay where another formidable-looking vessel’s made port and where the Aquila will be docking.

“Have you eaten yet?” Haytham asks, smoothing down his coat when he sits beside William.

“I’ve no appetite.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” Haytham laughs and pulls out half a loaf of freshly baked bread wrapped in paper. He sets it between them and takes the first slice. “Come on, eat up. Bread like this doesn’t come easy.”

He sees William’s lips quirk but still they remain silent, and the sound of the town waking up in the distance and the port below working drifts above them.

“What are you feeling, William?”

“Dread. You?”

“I believe in Connor, I have no reason to fear anything.” He doesn’t regret saying that, even though he knows that he’s insinuated that William does not believe in his own son. Haytham purses his lips, knowing that the other man should have been doing so by now. “Desmond is a fighter, William. He is not weak. You are his father after all.”

“It’s easy for you to say that. We’re basically sitting in a land brimming with your son’s achievements!” William exclaims in disbelief, gesturing to the port that they overlook and mansion behind them. “He has something to be proud of, look at this place! You’ve seen his ship and his crew. That one down there isn’t too bad of one either.”

“You sound like a daft old fool,” Haytham bites, his impatience growing at William’s state of misplaced inadequacy. “You may be right in me understanding Desmond more than you ever have but in case it needs explanation, he joined and excelled in the Navy to show you something, to impress you. Though it’s clear that you still haven’t understood that since you’re talking like this.

“Just because we are close friends does not mean that we should to compare our sons to each other. Our children aren’t horses that you boast about the speed yet judge and condemn the flaws,” he ends, taking another bite of his bread.

William looks ready to give him a solid punch to the jaw by the way his fists are shaking in his lap. Instead, he tears off a bit from the bread and throws it into the bay violently for gulls to feast on in mid-air.

“You say you care about him? I understand that, but you better you proud of him after everything he’s been through, William Miles.” He doesn’t care for the venom in his voice because if he has to be honest, he tires of William beating himself up about this. It’s an insult to who he is. To the man he’s been friends with all these years.

“I apologize about the bread,” _and myself._ “It was a waste.”

“It’s all right, _I forgive you_. I’m sure the birds were grateful for it—” Haytham rises and dusts the dirt from his coat. He extends a hand for William to take. “Come, to the docks we go.”

 

 

The air is considerably warmer as they head down the hill.

* * *

 

_One week after. The Aquila._

Desmond is given a cleaner set of clothes a very eager Clipper Wilkinson, who now proceeded to ask him about his exploits both on land and on water. Ezio is still holed up in his cabin, trying to avoid the sun and the voices that were surely to provoke his hangover making it pointless to ask him for any spare clothing, or anything at all. Desmond hears Altair mumble under his breath about it.

Now, as Connor mans the ship at a lax pace, they sail inland to where the ship usually docks, away from the prying clutches of both the British and the Continentals. Desmond finds out from Clipper that most of the crew live in the Homestead, and it was only when Connor arrived over half a decade ago that the area thrived, with a growing economy that’s depended both on the Aquila as a naval convoy and as a source of income.

They feast on more hummus and flatbread that Malik’s made with help from Stephane in comfortable conversation under the frosted morning sun.

“How are your wounds, Desmond?” Clipper asks him kindly, handing him another slice of flatbread. “I hope they heal well. We won’t be running into any more trouble since we’re so close to home.”

“I’m coping,” he answers, relief present in his voice. “I can’t say I’ve had worse because I’ve only been sent to the gallows once and I don’t wish for another chance to return there.”

“Not many people survive the gallows,” Clipper snorts.

“Most of them end up dead.”

They laugh light-heartedly until Connor takes back the wheel and Altair calls for the ship to weigh the anchor. When they rise and begin to man the sails, Desmond feels a hand grab the back of his shirt to keep him from pulling one of the ropes. He looks back to see Malik shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Miles, no heavy lifting for you until you’re healed.”

“But-”

“Clipper’s smart enough to know what to do, leave him be. Anyway, I need your assistance with something so follow me if you don’t mind.”

Clipper waves him away with a grin before he disappears from view below the deck.  At first, he expects Malik to return back to the clinic, thinking that he needs another change in bandages. When they walk past the dusty, tome-filled room and even past Ezio’s closed door, Desmond finds himself uncertain as to where Malik leads him.

“Where are we-”

“Kadar’s and Clipper’s cabin. I’ve come to collect what remaining possessions he left.” _To bury him_.

They are silent through the ordeal, Desmond only carrying the wooden crate that Malik fills with his brother’s tattered shirts and breeches, a few small books of anatomical structures in both English and their native language, as well as a few letters written in phrases and lines that were foreign to him.

“I’m sorry, Malik.”

“It is not your fault,” the surgeon answers, raising his eyes to look through Desmond. He keeps in his hand a small worn piece of paper before tossing it into the crate.  “People have their time, some earlier than others. I do not blame you or Altair for what happened. I cannot.”

They feel the ship lurching briefly and they know that it has docked; suddenly Desmond feels his chest tighten, far from excited about seeing his father again after nine years. He thinks about the abuse he might get from his father, of how ungrateful and worthless he’s been, of how he might wish that Desmond shouldn’t have been born in the first place—

“Come, _sabiyy_ , you will be all right. Your father wishes for you what you wish for him.” Malik lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. Desmond finds that hard to believe.

“But-” he stammers, biting his lip and Malik urges him out of the cabin calmly.

 

 

“You _will_ be all right. Trust me.”

* * *

_One week after. The Davenport Homestead._

Haytham knows that his son’s crew is diverse, but when he meets the captain of the weapons-heavy vessel that is currently docked to one side of the bay, he and William are completely at lost for words. Though that is not necessarily a bad thing.

“ _Monsieur_ Kenway, I presume?” The ebon-skinned captain of La Bravoure greets them, shaking their hands firmly and leading them to the docks. The sailors that work around them greet the captain with respect, and what Haytham senses to be intimidation. “You and Connor share that same look about you, a sort of _résolution_. He’s told me a lot about you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot say the same thing for you, Madam…” She smiles at Haytham’s uncertainty. There is reason for it, because Haytham feels like he’s speaking to Ziio again and William can sense his unease.

“Aveline de Grandpre at your service,” she answers genially, bowing their heads at them. “I captain that ship you see there, La Bravoure. Connor has helped me acquire her so you can say that we are ah- _partenaires dans le crime_ of sorts. One of his men is betrothed to one of _mes femmes_ —” she turns to William and nods. “You must be General Miles of the Continental Army, Connor’s current client.”

“That I am,” William answers calmly. “He expects to meet us here.”

“No doubt that he will, in fact, I see her topsails right now-” she squints at the tree line before flashing them a smile. “ _Excusez-moi, messieurs,_ I need to make sure that the Aquila will be restocked, no doubt they’ve imbibed in many of the rum barrels after their success.”

And she sprints into the bustle and fray of the sailors milling about with barrels and bits of wood and tools, directing them to accommodate Connor’s ship.

William laughs beside him. “She is bold.”

“She has to be if those men are easily doing everything she tells them to do.”

When the Aquila sails into full view, they see the iron reinforcements of the right broadside look as though they’ve been dented but minimally. Nothing to worry about when they see Connor manning the helm, giving orders while appearing relaxed and not as though anything’s gone awry. When the ship halts and the anchor splashes into the water, immediately Aveline’s men take to restoring the ship like tireless worker ants.

Aveline herself waits when Connor’s men walk off the plank, giving them strong, encouraging handshakes before letting them off. Pride is evident in her actions but as the minute passes it’s clear that something’s happened when the crew are not as animated as they were before the operation.

Before the mission, Haytham counted seven of the more notable members of the crew. Now he only sees six. The one-armed surgeon’s younger brother is nowhere to be seen.

“They’ve lost a man.”

They watch Aveline speaking to them, as though in comfort, giving the crippled surgeon an embrace and whispering something to him before letting him walk off with the quartermaster following in his wake, a small crate in his arms. Desmond’s head appears from the hold, looking into the crowd uncertainly and William’s breathing hitches beside him. Then she proceeds to speak to Connor and Desmond, nodding to whatever Connor’s saying before she gestures to where they stand.

Haytham sees Desmond, though not terribly worse for wear, paling at the sight of William. He almost laughs at the pair of them, both looking anxious to see each other.

To say that Desmond’s grown is an understatement. It’s as though Haytham finds himself looking at a much younger and warmer version of William. Desmond may possess his father’s features but he also has something more. Something more defiant and undoubtedly gutsy. He smiles and pushes William to walk towards them.

“Ah, Connor, it’s nice to see you well and in one piece,” Haytham greets, and he momentarily sees a flash of familiarity in Desmond’s tired eyes. No doubt he’s recalled the times wherein he and Haytham ran around William’s house in acts of childish representations. “Desmond, it’s good to see you again after all these years.”

“It’s good to see you too, Mister Kenway-” Desmond hesitantly answers.

“Call me Haytham, son. I am glad to see you safe,” Haytham accosts before turning to his own son. “Anyway, Connor, I trust that the voyage back here was smooth enough?”

“I had just been telling Aveline about how we were tailed by the Providence on the way back off the coast of Connecticut. They had been much to close for comfort for us but due to Desmond’s expertise we managed to get away relatively unscathed,” he replies, gesturing to the minimal dents of on the broadside of the Aquila. Haytham can hear the relief and pride for Desmond in his son’s voice.

“The Providence? That’s a flagship of the British Navy, isn’t it?” William asks, his concern overriding his anxiety. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

“We destroyed them.”

Desmond’s tone catches all of them off-guard but Haytham knows that it is meant for William and William only. Desmond almost glowers at his father, his arms crossed defiantly against his chest, as though showing off the inked motif on his left forearm that certainly hadn’t been present when Desmond was a teenager.

Defiant indeed.

Connor eyes Desmond in worry before glancing back at Haytham, unsure of how to respond to the situation. Aveline beside him looks impressed but she hides it, sensing that there is something else going on that she is far from aware of.

William exhales after a moment. “You would, Desmond. I know you would.”

The air seizes around them for a moment but then they falter and they catch each other.

Desmond almost crashes into William, shaking and holding fistfuls of his father’s coat when he buries his head into the older man’s shoulder. Haytham smiles at the sight of William who, out of genuine relief, tears up when he holds his son after nine years. They say nothing but everything is all right. Haytham knows, and Connor knows.

 _“Quel beau spectacle,”_ Aveline says, a smile blooming on her lips. Haytham finds himself agreeing and the three of them leave the father and son.

When they turn back to the Aquila, they see the Italian navigator, Ezio Auditore hobbling off the docks and into the village with his head in his hands, as though in pain. Aveline laughs as he disappears through the trees, clearly showing symptoms of intoxication.

_“Non, ma chère. Ça, par contre, c'est un spectacle magnifique,”_ Haytham says smoothly making Aveline laugh harder and Connor give a small smile in his direction. All is well for the moment.

* * *

  _A week after and two days after. New York._

Vidic swears like an inebriated sailor upon hearing word from the brigade stationed in Connecticut that the Providence had been virtually annihilated by the Aquila in a span of less than ten minutes. He glares an the courier who relays the message in his office. He continued to say that while there have been survivors in the attack, the captain of the Providence, Daniel Cross, did not stick around to report to the commanding officer in the area.

“Where the goddamned hell is he then?” Vidic interrupts, making the courier feel more rattled that he already is. “Has anyone found him? We needed that ship—”

They both jump when the door to Vidic’s office is kicked open and the sight of a very harried-looking Captain Cross who looks as though he hasn’t slept ever since the attack two days ago. Vidic grits his teeth when Cross pulls a gun on the courier and telling him to get out the office and shut the door.

“You had one job, Cross. You really had to cock it up, didn’t you?” Vidic hisses, unfazed by the pistol pointed at him and Cross staring down at him from the top of the barrel. “What do you want? In no circumstances am I going to give you another ship if you’re only going to serve it the those corsair crooks on a silver platter-”

“Shut your mouth and listen here, Vidic. Guess what I found out when my ship got blasted. Come on, now, guess.”

“What. Did you find out that your mother thought you a monster?” Vidic spits, watching his inkwell spill on his documents as Cross kicks the table at his response.

“I knew that before I even came to the service, you twit. No, we could have had the Aquila  that day. We were this close-”

“You’re delusional. If you’ve come here just to tell me every single detail of how you failed then leave my office-” Vidic trails off when Cross unlatches the safety of the flintlock and presses it to his forehead. The metal of the barrel is cold against his clammy forehead, and Cross is smirking now. Enjoying his torment.

“The Aquila doesn’t attack, Vidic. _It. Never. Did_. It flees and escapes, never attacking. But it was different this time.”

“And why is that?”

“Because Miles is on it. Didn’t you know how my ship got blasted? How exactly it was gunned down, mercilessly? Miles didn’t die on the execution date, Vidic. The Aquila shelled Fort George so that he can get out. They have him.”

 _Imagine the damage they can do to us_ , is what Cross leaves hanging in the air between them. The ink begins to drip on his breeches but Vidic only ignores it, realising the weight of the situation. When Cross sees that he finally understands, the pistol is removed from his forehead and returned to its holster.

“What do you propose then, Cross?”

“Word of mouth along the harbour is that the Aquila doesn’t strike unless it somehow benefits from it. It functions like a hired mercenary.” The mania is gone from Cross's eyes, and now Vidic sees a predator, planning his attack carefully.

“So you think that somebody had paid the ship to set Miles free that day?”

“Not just somebody. Do you remember when he first got into the service? People accused him of being a spy for the Continentals because of his father? Boy, he proved us wrong now, didn’t he?” Cross explains, sticking his finger into the puddle of ink on the desk. Vidic nods, remembering very well how Miles was almost sent to the gallows because of his name, and what it meant. Desmond Miles, son of William Miles, a general of the Continental Army, the enemy.

“You think his father paid good money to let Miles out now, is that it?”

“He was let off by Washington himself at Valley Forge a week ago, soldiers saying he was a danger to morale and what not. He was worried about something, someone.” Vidic didn’t think that Cross was capable of psychological warfare but then here he is, talking about plans that boiled down to one single base instinct— General William Miles’ paternal tendencies. “So he’s somewhere out in the Frontier, probably with Miles and the crew of the Aquila if we’re lucky, unprotected by the very men he chose to serve. Find the general, take him hostage, get the Aquila and Miles to come and save him and-” he slices a finger to his throat, _kill them all._

“Isolate this, I don’t want the Continentals to attack us over this silly little thing. It would be another thing we don’t need,” Vidic instructs as he begins to wipe the ink from his desk with a white handkerchief. But the Aquila and Miles’ demise would be a great form of respite for them. One less thing to worry about. “What if you fail?”

 _“I. Won’t.”_  Cross hisses before kicking his door open upon exit. Vidic sighs, rubbing a hand to his temple while scowling at his ink-stained breeches.

He makes sure to burn these set of breeches when he gets home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aveline on watching Desmond and William's reunion: "What a beautiful sight."
> 
> Haytham, upon seeing Ezio hobble clumsily away from the ship: "No, my dear. Now _that_ is a beautiful sight."


	5. Chapter 5

_A week after. The Davenport Homestead._

The first night after the Aquila’s return from Fort George, everyone eats dinner at the Mile’s End. Desmond’s never seen so much food in one place, or an actual tavern full of people who were simply happy in each other’s company.

The tables are assembled into two rows spanning the whole tavern and the food is set out in the centre of it. The scent of dishes wafting through the air is mouth-watering. The variety isn’t just the normal stuffed turkey either. Considering that the crew of the Aquila are men of many different nations, Desmond finds himself trying out more of the food that Malik and Altair have prepared, which means more hummus, as well as food that Ezio and his family brought out when he after he recovered from his morning intoxication. Stephane and Aveline set out foods in names that Desmond can’t for all his ability pronounce, but he cares little.

He feels like he’s tasting the world.

For the first time in a long time, he is happy, content. Even his father is enjoying the food and the company, there was no denying the smile on William’s face.

It is here where he also meets most of Aveline’s crew, comprising mostly of women. Desmond cannot say that he’s surprised, he is impressed to say the least.

He meets Maria Thorpe, Altair’s fiancée and Aveline’s first mate, a former fighter for the British until she was rudely discharged from the service because of her gender. He also meets Claudia, Ezio’s younger sister, who apparently, according to Ezio, _‘knows how to wield a knife and is ready to do so again’._

He speaks briefly with an older woman, Dobby Carter, whom Connor’s recruited on Aveline’s behalf, on what terms she didn’t specify but she gladly stays for the company. Rebecca Crane, La Bravoure’s resident technician and craftsperson greets him enthusiastically and commends his courage for blasting a hole through the Providence’s hull.

Then he meets her.

It is brief, but Desmond does not forget or voice the face of Lucy Stillman. She is kind, soft-spoken, and is La Bravoure’s navigator. Rebecca laughs at her attempts in trying to strike up a conversation with Desmond but he doesn’t mind. She was a maidservant for Governor Vidic at one point before abdicating in New York after the fire. When Aveline had found her defending herself skilfully in one of the taverns by the port, a question to come away with them had been raised and she answered immediately. The rest is history.

_“It was really brave of you to actually abandon ship before your execution. Usually men would just give up when they find themselves stuck but it seems you’ve found a way out, unorthodox it may be.”_

Desmond doesn’t take his eyes off of her, he cannot.

He doesn’t realise that he’s being toasted to until Rebecca nudges his shoulder. They look to the far end of the table to see Altair standing up with Maria and Malik flanking him as he holds his pint to the air.

“To Desmond Miles, who in a time where he was gravely injured, risked his life to protect a vessel that he is yet to a member of.”

The tavern answers with joyous response, and Desmond finds himself awestruck when their tributes continue. William chuckles at him from behind his tankard.

“To Miles who jumped off the Providence and tended bar in Jersey!” Clipper laughs into the air.

“To Desmond who feared not death on his execution,” Connor calmly says over the clamour, raising his glass, which is filled not with alcohol but water. Aveline and Haytham follow him, raising their glasses.

Desmond almost spits his drink out when William stands, and calls for the tavern to quiet down for him. “To Desmond, who joined the British Navy, enduring the jeers and judgements that came with his history as the son of a Continental general, who rose and soared making his talent known far and wide, _who survived._ To Desmond, my son, who has never made me a prouder father than I am now.”

“To Desmond,” Haytham says affirms.

He is surprised that he hasn’t cried his eyes out by the time their assertions have trailed off. Now they expect him to speak. His throat feels dry and the alcohol does not improve it any.

He tries anyway. “Hello. I, uh, I’ve never been really good at these things but-” he sees Malik eyeing him sadly, no doubt missing his brother. Desmond raises his pint. “-There’s somebody else we have to think of. On that day of my execution, it wasn’t I who died, but Malik’s brother, Kadar. I’ve never met him, but I owe him my life. So, to Kadar. May he find peace.”

The tavern is quieter, but they do not acknowledge his tribute any less. Desmond sees Malik smiling and tearing up from his words. He glances back at Connor and raises his tankard. “And to the Aquila and its crew, to you all I owe my life. If you are still in need of an arms master then please, have me. I would be honoured to be a part of this family.”

Connor smiles at him and he feels better when William nods at his choice in agreement.

“You can even be in charge of the alcohol if you want, _amici_! Word of mouth is that you make a mean drink,” Ezio calls out.

“He would not be supplying any to you, _frère_! We’ve seen you bumbling around earlier like a twit because of it,” Aveline jests.

 

Desmond could not be any happier. He feels like he is on top of the world even though his bandages are killing his chest because of how tightly wound they are.  The next thing the tavern knows, he passes out the moment he tries to stand to get a glass of water.

* * *

 

_A week and three days after. John’s Town, The Frontier_

Cross breathes out the air, the leaves in the bush he finds himself taking shelter in flutter in response. He squints at the pitiful contingent of Continentals that treks along the trail below him, hearing their uncertainty in the cold. He counts five of them, all riding on horseback.

“Hey, Kaczmarek, you sure this is the right way?”

“Positive. We’ll get there by nightfall if you all stop complaining,” Cross hears Kaczmarek responding to the others, but it is clear that the man’s patience is also wearing thin, no doubt from the warfront that they had to leave behind to reengage their absolved general.

Cross has been trailing them over the course of the day, away from the track and the eyes of the soldiers. They are tired, exhausted, from the battle that their commanders are waging against Cross’s, and from the inadequacy in the efforts and lives that their comrades have so clearly sacrificed.

Cross can easily kill them. Even after they will have recovered General Miles, he can still easily kill them. His hands shake at the thought of their blood staining his waistcoat, his breeches, his boots. But he wipes those feelings that arise in his mind, he needs one of them alive to send his message across Desmond Miles.

It was all part of the plan, after all.

 

He makes camp on the cliff, ready and eager to put his hands, his rope and his pistol to action in the morning.

* * *

 

_A week and three days after. The Davenport Homestead._

Desmond feels odd when people dote on him, maybe it is because of how he’d been raised as a child, his father never actually being there for him, or maybe it was because of how independent he’d become after he ran away from his father. He doesn’t think that he will ever get used to the tavern owners, Corrine and Oliver, asking him if they can get him anything, or Rebecca jumping him every chance she gets. Just to ask how he’s doing.

He does take Ezio’s advice of being in charge of the alcohol because now he tends bar at the Mile’s End. And just like serving the Aquila, he prefers tending to this tavern so much better than he did in Jersey. He likes the people and the tavern itself better. Everything is cleaner and the bar itself doesn’t smell like piss and vomit, which is a very big improvement from Jersey.

His wounds feel better and everyone is less wary of him passing out in the middle of conversation.

“It’s how women go about their daily lives, frère,” Aveline says as she sips her wine. She gestures to the bodice that’s hugging her torso. “If you think wearing those bandages for a few days is horrible, try having them on for years and years and have people expecting you to do everything for them without fainting. Imagine captaining a ship and chasing down second-rate pirates while wearing one.”

“I have never understood what they were for,” Connor says, his voice hinting curiosity. “The women from my village have never been subject to such practices.”

“They are all the better for it, Connor. Why do you think my girls hate having them on?” Aveline answers.

Desmond’s attention shifts from the two captains’ conversation about women’s clothing to Haytham and William sitting next to the fireplace, engaged in quiet exchange. Haytham laughs at something his father says and claps William on the back heartily. He’s never seen both of them looking so at ease.

Perhaps it is because of how detached the homestead is from the rest of the colonies, because of how free it is from the war, though its’ professionals are casualties of it.

When the tavern door opens, they all find themselves stiffening at the sight of a handful of Continental soldiers making their way inside from the rain. Desmond halts his polishing of shot glasses when the leader of them makes eye contact with him. The man is gaunt, and his eyes paler than anything else Desmond’s ever seen. Their blue coats are rendered sopping black by the rain and the leader’s blond hair is plastered to his face.

They look as though they already lost the war. A couple of them look terrified to see Connor and Aveline bristling for an attack on them. The youngest soldier just plain terrified of Aveline.

“Kaczmarek,” William stands when he acknowledges his men and they snap up at him, saluting him out of respect as their commanding officer. They seem to exhale a breath that they held before settling themselves inside, making sure to leave their muskets by the window.

“These are your men, William?” Haytham asks, unfazed by the troops.

“Yes.” Desmond has never seen his father in action but it is everything he’s expected. His father is a cold, calculating leader, not even asking his men if they require any blankets or warm drinks that Desmond can easily supply. Connor and Aveline next to him are still alert even when the Continentals are shivering like dogs. “What’s happened, Kaczmarek?”

“Commander Washington needs you back, sir,”Kaczmarek answers, his voice steady but his body shaking profusely. Desmond scowls and walks out of the tavern, directing himself through the maze of corridors until it led him to where the blankets and towels are stored. He is glad that Oliver and Corrine have shown him around the inn, because he is quick when he piles them into his arms.

They all stare back him when he walks back in. He tries his best to ignore the heat that rises to his face when he hands the soldiers a blanket each, especially when Kaczmarek gives him the most unwavering stare with those light eyes of his. He’s never been comfortable being watched nor does he feel comfortable when he realises that Kaczmarek knows who he truly is.

They all mumble their thanks, but he feels better seeing that they aren’t shaking in their boots anymore.

“What was it you were saying, Clay?” William asks again, unfazed by his son’s sudden kindness to men that he used to consider his enemies.

“Washington wants you back sir, the others troops are getting restless, and it seems Lafayette nor the Commander himself cannot control them since they are so used to having you in command of them,” Kaczmarek answers, pulling the blanket tighter across his shoulders. The other men nod their assent, and it is clear that they desire whatever discipline William imposes on them.

All of them turn to William as he contemplates his decision, Desmond knows already what his father’s decided.

“We will depart in the morning when all of you are fed and fit to ride. Get some rest, boys.” When they nod their understanding, William turns to Desmond. “ _Son_ , do you mind showing these men to their rooms? I’ll handle amends that will have to paid. Meet me back here when you’re finished.”

They do not whisper when he leads them deeper inside the inn, past his room as well as his father and Haytham’s. Perhaps they are too tired, but whatever it is, Desmond is grateful for it. Fortunately enough, there is a room with five empty beds. All of them fall asleep immediately when they land in their respective beds, all but Kaczmarek.

His eyes stare at Desmond intently but before he can slip out awkwardly to leave, the soldier grabs his arm. “You’re his son, aren’t you?”

“I, uh—” he gulps. “Yes.”

“He’s been worried about you.” Desmond finds it hard to believe that his father would be anything but cold and detached all the time, but here was one of his own soldiers, telling him otherwise. “And he’s never been— hell, he doesn’t even mention you. Not once. He’s all work, never talks about his past. But I knew that he’s a father that’s worried about his own son.”

“I didn’t know.” _Not until recently._

“You do now, _Miles of the British Navy_.” The soldier’s hand squeezes his arm before letting go. “You look like him, but you’re nothing like him. You’re too kind, too warm but still, thank you for your kindness, Desmond Miles.”

Unsettled, he returns to the tavern to see Connor, Haytham, Aveline and William all seated at one table, leaving a vacant seat of Desmond to take next to Haytham. As the rain eases, three of them see Connor and Aveline off, since both of their houses are over the bridge and closer to the bay. Haytham bids them good night, approving of Desmond’s initiative to give the soldiers blankets before disappearing from the tavern.

When the fire in the hearth cools down to mere cinders, Desmond turns back to his father, who’s looking out at the window and into the dark outside.

“You’re ready to leave then, dad?” he asks, the last word foreign on his tongue.

“I only came here with Haytham for one reason and that was to see you safe and sound, to see you again. I have nothing to worry about anymore. These people will take care of you far better than I ever could. You and I both know that.” He hears sadness in William’s voice.

“This is a compromise then?”

“No, son. It’s a promise.” _An apology._

Desmond doesn’t realise that his father is holding him close until the material of his coat scratches lightly at his face. He doesn’t cry but he feels that reality of it deep inside and the sadness of it.

“Look at it this way. You’ve always wanted to be a pirate for some reason when you were a child and here you are,” William laughs.

“Very funny, dad. I didn’t think I had to nearly die to get there though.”


	6. Chapter 6

_A week and four days after. The Davenport Homestead._

When Haytham wakes in the morning, he can barely see anything in the dark but he manages to make out the neatness of William’s bed and he hears the all too familiar rustling of clothes being worn and buckles clasped. When his eyes adjust to the dark, he sees William straightening out his clothes in front of the flecked mirror.

The sun has not risen yet and the air is freezing. Haytham’s lips curl unpleasantly when he sits up, the air seeping through his thin cotton shirt. William glances at him as he stands and stretches.

“Up so early, Haytham?” William says to him, watching him pull his grey hair into its usual tail, despite the cold that seems to thrive in the air. William’s tone is joking but when he sees the man’s eyes in the mirror, it is dismal, though not for the reason of leaving his own son but returning to the battlefield.

He won’t see William anytime soon after he leaves. He is not sure if he’ll ever see William again. It’s not pessimism that makes him think this, instead the verity of their whole situation. This land is at war, and William is on the front and leading a charge of men that may or may not survive the next morning.

“I’d like to see you off before your departure, my friend.”

William smiles at this, and outside their room they hear the feet of the soldiers as they make their way back into the tavern where they know that breakfast will be served by the tavern owners.

Before he even gets a hand around the doorknob, William lays a hand on his shoulder and he feels warm breath against the back of his neck. He doesn’t stiffen at the contact.

“For what it’s worth, Haytham, thank you for everything.” And he can hear the gravity in those words. _Thank you for taking care of Desmond when he was young, for taking care of me when I’ve gotten lost many a time over the years, for showing me how to be a better father—_

Words do not convey his understanding so instead he lets his actions guide him. Their friendship is not one based on physical contact, instead more bonds of the intellectual mind, but they do not abhor it. Haytham turns around and sees the anguish in William eyes, and it makes his heart ache. He gives William a small smile as he cups his cheek, and William leans his head against Haytham’s shoulder, gripping the back of his unbuttoned waistcoat as he wraps his arms around him. William’s hands are warm when they clutch his shirt. This is not the first embrace that they shared, and Haytham wants to hope—wants to believe that it won’t be the last.

“Come back alive out of this _blasted_ war, you hear me?” his voice is muffled against William’s coat, and he feels the grip on his back growing tighter. He blinks away his tears. “Come back alive and we’ll actually get inebriated like we never have before. Our sons can help us home. It’s long overdue, William.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

The sky is still dotted with stars by the time they are outside yet Haytham doesn’t care for the cold when it seeps through his clothes. Desmond and Connor have already woken up to see them off to help the soldiers secure their belongings and he can only watch when William says his good-bye to Desmond, properly this time.

Kaczmarek is the only soldier bold enough to watch their exchange, and Haytham sees something unreadable in the man’s pale eyes, a hollowness that he cannot decipher. Before he can look further into it, the soldier’s snap to a salute when William orders them to move.

They share one last glance and he mouths, _‘take care of yourself,’_ to which William nods in understanding. Then he disappears after his contingent.

He turns back when he hears Connor speaking to him, eyes clouded with well-concealed worry. “Father, I know you wish to leave for Boston soon but I fear we cannot do it tonight. Kadar’s interment is planned for this afternoon and my crew would not appreciate it being interrupted.”

 

“I understand. What do you propose then?”

* * *

 

He did not think he could ever actually spend time with Connor that didn’t involve pistols and muskets or any sort of violence in between. He did not think any sort of quality time was possible with Connor at all, not after being absent from his son’s life until he was a late teenager.

Running around the frosted Homestead picking flowers and feathers is something he did not think he’d ever do with his son.

And Connor actually has the nerve to make fun of him for being unable to climb a tree.

“I did not think—” he huffs, trying not to let the bark of the pine tree that Connor is perched on cut and wound his cold fingers. The last thing he needs is to turn up at the funeral bleeding and in need of the surgeon’s services. “—that you would inherit your mother’s tendency to make fun of me as well.”

Connor quiets at this and one of the feathers that was tucked into his waistband falls to the ground before he realises it. Haytham sighs slips the eagle feather into his coat before trying his hand at climbing the tree again.

“Look for knots in the bark, _Raké:ni._ ” The last word is what Haytham assumes to be the Kanien’kehá word for ‘father’. Connor says it in a tone that can makes him certain of it. He grits his teeth, trying again and he gives a laugh when he finds kinks in the bark that he manages to pull himself up with. Breathless, he settles on the space of branch beside Connor before handing the feather from his coat out to his son.

“I’m not as young as I used to be, Connor.”

Connor laughs and it is a sound that he’s yet to hear before. It sings, just as Ziio’s did. “I can see that.”

He learns more about Connor in those hours than he ever did in the five or so years of antagonism towards each other. Connor, while he had been accepted by his village without a question, had still felt the need to prove himself. He became the best hunter the village had ever seen, and then some. He became the Captain of the Aquila. He still visits the village, happy to see them and supply them with materials that he knew grew sparser as the war went on.

Connor’s close childhood friend, Kanen'tó:kon, would occasionally visit the Homestead, even see the Atlantic on the Aquila. But Connor fears that his people will move soon, and he feels useless that he cannot do anything to secure their last sanctuary from the Colonists. This is why the Aquila is an independent, and therefore considered a pirate ship. None of the crew likes authority. It is freedom embodied into a naval vessel. And Connor? Freedom embodied in a man.

Ziio would be proud of him beyond belief. Haytham knows that he is.

He almost falls off a branch more than thirty feet up high when Connor asks him, “Do you miss her?”

Connor immediately moves to grab him and pull him up, and he is shaking, not out of fear of falling but the excitement. They make their way up to a cliff abundant with wildflowers before he answers.

“I miss her dearly, Connor. As I would.” They begin to pluck flowers, setting them down on the grassy plain in a certain arrangement. “I’m not a heartless bastard, mind you. And don’t you dare say otherwise else Desmond would not be here.”

Connor tenses. “You care about him, don’t you?”

He sighs in response and halts picking the primroses. When he looks back, he sees Connor staring at him expectantly, almost as though preparing himself for disappointment.

Connor doesn’t stiffen when he reaches out to grab his arm, gently. “I care about him yes, and you could say that he is like a son to me, Connor. I will not argue. But know this, ever since meeting you, I’ve always wished that you and I could share what Desmond and I did when he was little. I always cursed myself for not finding out about you earlier the first few years. I kept imagining how different it would be if I could go back with knowing everything I know now, how different it would be had your mother and I stayed together, how different it would be if actually had my chance with you.”

Connor’s eyes betray sadness, longing, wistfulness— the very sentiment Haytham’s been feeling ever since meeting him. _He understands._

“I did not peg you as a wishful thinker, father,” Connor exhales.

“Nor did I, Connor. Yet here we are.” He picks at the grass that grows underneath his boots. “I may not have known you as a child but I think Desmond would like to have met you earlier.”

“What was he like?” They begin bundling the flowers into makeshift sprays, and Haytham lets him handle everything because he doesn’t know a whit about flowers.

“He was a lonely and withdrawn, and I don’t think he ever really did have friends his age,” and as he says this, he sees pity go through Connor’s mind. “He had me for a bit, but I knew and felt that it was William’s approval he’d wanted. I could understand.”

He sees Connor imagining in his head the difference between him and Desmond as children. Desmond who was isolated physically and emotionally from his own father, who had nobody to turn to except for Haytham who visited occasionally while he was surrounded by children of all ages in his village, and they all played hide-and-seek and then some. Connor had his mother for four years, and even after her death he had been taken care of by Clan-Mother, even Kanen'tó:kon’s parents.

“He rose through that,” Connor says in determination. “And even if you think of the past and how you could have changed it, it shapes you and your future. And he’s learned from all those struggles. I do not think he would have wished otherwise.”

“You’re right. He did, and so did you, son.”

 

He makes it a point to never look his son in the eye when he verbally acknowledges his pride for Connor because he can easily sense his son’s disbelief from miles away.

* * *

 

The funeral is an affair that everyone from the Homestead attends and at dusk when the sun sinks from the sky, everyone stands around Kadar’s freshly dug grave. It is one big family and Haytham, for all his magnificent callousness, feels honoured to be a part of it. Connor says to him silently that while Kadar’s body had never been recovered, they are choosing instead to bury what spirit of his lives on in the memories associated with his possessions.

He understands. Some men do not even get a tear shed in their stead.

It is a quiet affair, and while the local priest, Father Timothy, knows that Kadar and his brother are not men of the Christian God, he does not acknowledge them any less. He speaks of the person Kadar was, and how his energy and passion will be missed by everyone he’s ever known.

Haytham remembers the young man who spoke up out of curiosity at the Green Dragon two weeks ago and he agrees. Oddly enough, Kadar had the bluest eyes for a man from the Middle East. It is something he will remember.

The crews of the Aquila and La Bravoure cast out feathers in honour Kadar’s memory. Haytham sees Desmond carefully pitch a small cartridge pouch filled with pale roses. Malik casts a small book into the mound before they begin pitching the soil back into the grave.

The epitaph is carved in Arabic, only _‘Kadar Al-Sayf’_ in small unobtrusive letters in the middle of the elegant scripts. Soon, the homesteaders take their leave quietly and disappear in the dark of the trees until it is only Malik, Altair, Maria, Desmond, Aveline, Connor and him are left.

Their attention snaps when they hear the sound of twigs and dried grass crunching loudly and rapidly at them. They see Stephane and the miner, Norris, Haytham thinks his name was, both breathless and looking alarmed.

“What’s happened?” Malik is the first to ask.

“There is a Continental and he is- _merde, Norris- qu'est-ce qui lui est arrivé?_ ” Stephane sputters, visible rattled by whatever they’d seen.

“A Continental?” Desmond asks, stepping forward as though it would help him to find out more. When the two men start bouncing rapid French off each other that makes Aveline hiss at them, Desmond gives an exasperated almost shout. “Calm down, both of you! Breathe, tell us what happened.”

“There was this Continental soldier we found passed out on the road in front of the Mile’s End,” Norris supplies. “He has a very deep looking bayonet stab to his shoulder and thigh but he was calling for you, Desmond.”

“What did he look like?” Connor asks while Malik, Altair and Maria begin sprinting up the trail to the inn, Malik’s surgeon’s instinct had very clearly already unfurled.

“He was blonde, very pale, his eyes very bright—”

“Kaczmarek.” The name passes through their lips like a whisper but Desmond is already gone, and he’s overtaken Malik and the others, judging by Altair’s surprised yell. They follow without question, Aveline placating the two Canadians in their mother tongue.

Haytham feels sick to his stomach and Connor’s hand on his shoulder does nothing to help.

 

If Kaczmarek had been injured, what of William? He dreads finding out.

* * *

 

_A week and four days after. Great Piece Hills, the Frontier._

Taking down the poorly assembled Continental contingent is much, much easier than Cross thought it would be. It’s almost pathetic. When he throws his rope dart at the smallest soldier flanking the rear, he savours the sputtering his first victim makes as he chokes to death.

Using the dead weight of the soldier hung from the branch as leverage, he swings towards the next two with knives on hand. He doesn’t care for the blood staining his coat because the next thing he does after kicking the corpse off one of the horses, he pulls out his a throwing knife and embeds it into the back of the fourth soldier’s head.

By the time the General and his blond messenger had discovered him, his knife is already held to Miles’ throat. Quick and easy.

While Kaczmarek leers down the shaft of his musket unflinchingly, his aim is visibly shaky. He could risk shooting his superior but he doesn’t lower his musket, even when Miles stiffens under Cross’s hand, the knife making a bloody red line on his throat.

“What do you want?” Kaczmarek demands boldly but the fear is starting to show in his eyes. Good. Cross lets himself a smile before swiftly bringing his arm around the General’s throat, halting the circulation from arteries to the man’s brain. Soon enough, Miles goes limp as he passes out.

Kaczmarek does not have the chance to cry out before Cross charges at him with a stray bayonet and thrusts it deep into his shoulder. He twists the blade slowly and painfully as he holds down and straddles Kacmarek’s squirming body.

“F-fuck, get off me,” he man below exhales, his breathy voice laced with pain. Cross smiles at the blood pooling on his shoulder. He is weak and it is time to finish the job.

“Listen here, Goldenboy. I want you to send a message to General Miles’ son, Desmond. I trust you’ve met him and met him well?” He pushes his weight deeper on the knife to further keep the man’s struggles at bay. With his free hand, he pulls out a torn map from his coat and tucks it into Kaczmarek’s tricorne with a pat. “Your commanders will not mourn the loss of this man since they have bigger worries. But _you_ will, knowing that you fucked up if you go to them instead of going to Desmond, so get to it. Tell them that Cross wants his blood and the Aquila’s.”

“Fuck you,” Kaczmarek spits and he only laughs at it. The man writhes when he pulls out the blade of the bayonet only to bring it down into his thigh, lightly. He doesn’t want to impede Kaczmarek’s riding now, does he?

“Come on, up you get.” Cross helps the injured man onto a horse. Once he secures the reigns and Kaczmarek onto the animal, he steers it in the direction of the Aquila’s docks past John’s Town, he slaps that horse’s rear hard and sends it galloping away with a displeased neigh.

He turns back to Miles passed out in the dirt, a bit of blood staining his stubbled chin and readies his rope darts to hogtie his arms and feet.  The horses seem more used to war since they all had stayed in their positions while their riders were sprawled in the dirt beside their hooves, bleeding on to the dry grass.

He clicks his teeth and whistles, beckoning a black American Standardbred towards him, with General Miles’ dead weight on his shoulder and a wet and bloody coat sleeve on the other.

He finds himself eagerly impatient for the next part of this play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Stephane: "Shit, Norris, what happened to him?"
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

_A week and four days after. The Davenport Homestead._

Clay Kaczmarek does not cry out.

When he is held down by all of them while Malik takes a saw to his shoulder, he writhes and thrashes but does not scream or shout. He attempts to kick at Haytham and Aveline who hold his legs down, and he tries to rise from Connor’s and Desmond’s arms pinning down his chest. Maria keeps his head still while Altair assists Malik in passing him his heated, sterilized implements and his stinging disinfectants. They see his tears making streaks on his dirt-caked face but his mouth opens to silence. Even his breathing is quiet.

Cross has done so much damage to his arm, torn nerves and irreparable tissues, and the bleeding is irregular even with a tourniquet already knotted around his shoulder. Desmond’s arm is clenched in Clay’s left hand, and his fingers are growing numb from the grip.

Altair is the one who disposes of Clay’s dead arm and even in the distance of the darkening horizon, they can see a fire starting. When Clay sits up from the operating table, furiously rubbing his tear-streaked face with his hand, they turn to him.

He bats away a hand that Desmond holds out for support, viciously.

They do not need to ask because Clay tells them everything in one raspy breath.

“Cross has your father, Desmond.”

Those pale eyes glare at him, and he finds his mouth going dry and his mind reeling. He steadies himself against Clay’s cot with his arms shaking from under him.

“But we took down the Providence. Cross is dead-”

“And I’d still have _my bloody fuckin’ arm_ ,” Clay spits bitterly, holding his shoulder. He sighs and his tone softens, somewhat.  “If he was dead, I wouldn’t be here, you idiot.”

_If he was dead, your father would be all right,_ Desmond’s mind screams at him and his arms buckle. Clay shakily catches him and moves aside to let him rest on the cot. He’d been the best at what he does but he couldn’t even kill his past captain to keep his father from harm. Somehow, he felt that this was going to happen, because even in death Cross was never really one to back down, the persistent bastard. He lets out a shaky breath and Clay’s hand tousles his hair softly in comfort.

More than anything, he wants Cross dead. He wants to shoot, strangle, and stab the man a million times over until the whole of the Atlantic turns redder than the Providence’s sails from his blood. He grits his teeth and his fists clench at the thought of it.

“Did he leave anything with you?” Desmond hears Haytham ask stiffly. “A message? A ransom note? Anything?”

His hand leaves Desmond’s hair for a moment. “He told me that he wants Desmond’s blood along with the Aquila’s.”

“Then he’ll have our blood.” The conviction in Connor’s voice is unmistakeable and Desmond sits up to see _his captain’s_ eyes almost burning aflame, his spirit sympathetic to Desmond’s quandary. Beside him, Aveline, Malik, and Maria share that look, and for once, Desmond finally begins to think that they truly are pirates, of a different kind, but pirates nonetheless. And he is one of them now.

“He’ll have our blood when he’s dead. I’ll make sure of it this time,” Desmond rises and they nod at him, satisfied with his shared confidence. He holds a hand out for Clay to take, which he does this time. The bitterness in his pale eyes is replaced by a sort of curiosity that’s emphasized with his raised eyebrow. By the time Altair returns from the scorching of Clay’s arm, he knows.

They all walk to the docks and Clay holds on to Desmond’s arm for support, his hand is no longer in that numbing vice from earlier. Haytham speaks to Connor in hushed tones, but even the man’s initial alarm had simmered down into detached animosity. The others run ahead to rouse the crews from the sombre atmosphere that settled around after the funeral.

 

All of them wanted blood and Desmond will be the one to spill it.

* * *

 

_A week and six days after. The Commodore, off the coast of New Jersey._

When William wakes, he finds himself lying on a dirtied cot with his hands and feet weighed down in heavy shackles. Sunlight streams into an open window and the smell of the sea spray overwhelms him. He sits against a barrel next to his cot, surveying his small cabin, seeing ropes hanging haphazardly from the beams on the roof, and the dust drifting in clouds where the sunlight bounces off the old wooden floor. The walls are covered with barrels and kegs, gunpowder by the red paint peeling off of them in chunks.

The door is half-open but he is far too tired to move or even escape, and the chains around his wrists and feet do not help him any. He feels tightness around his neck, and he brings his hand up gingerly to find a bandage carefully wrapped around a tender cut—

One made by that mad British captain who ambushed them not too long ago, the one he knows as Desmond’s former superior. He remembers his soldiers dropping dead like flies in the silence of the Frontier, unaware to Cross who moved right behind them. He remembers the cold knife that traced a stinging line on his skin and Kaczmarek’s paling face before he was choked into unconsciousness.

“God damn it,” he coughs.

He already misses Desmond and Haytham, and that Homestead of Connor’s. It was one thing to want to avoid going back to Valley Forge in the middle of winter, but he must have had the worst luck if he’s already been captured by the enemy.

The door opens quietly to reveal a bespectacled British soldier, a Captain by the look of his coat, bringing in a tray with bread and a tankard of water on it. A flash of familiarity passes through the Captain’s eyes but William does not think too much on it.

“Good morning, General Miles,” the Captain greets him politely, in that same sort of upper-class British accent that he often associated with people like Haytham. People like Haytham being somewhat a somewhat cynical but polite sort, though it seemed to William that half of them breathed sarcasm unknowingly, Haytham included.

The Captain settles himself carefully across William, sighing at the dust that cakes his breeches and coat before pushing the tray of food in between them. William only glares at the Captain, ignoring the loud grumbling his stomach makes when the scent of warm pastry fills the air about them.

“I’d appreciate it if you eat up, General. My men do not appreciate having a hostage on board, and they’d like it even less when they find out that we’ve wasted good food on an ungrateful guest,” the Captain says, pushing the tray closer to William, unfazed by the glare he’s being given.

William grumbles but he reaches out to the pastry, putting it to his mouth with a bit of effort due to the manacles around his wrists. The pastry, while delicious, is dry and scratchy in his throat and the wound on his neck begins to sting.

“Who are you exactly and where the hell am I?” he asks after chugging down his tankard of water roughly to swallow down his food.

“Where are my manners? Shaun Hastings, I captain this vessel, the Commodore. You’re Desmond’s father, yes? He told me about you.”

“Did he now? You must have known him well enough if he had to tell you about me,” he hears the bitterness in his voice but he does nothing to mask it. He wants to go back to sleep, or go back further, before Desmond left, perhaps that would be better for all of them. He doesn’t care if Washington would panic without his aid over their troops.

He just wants to see Desmond again.

“He used to serve for this ship until Cross _borrowed_ him and never gave him back.” Shaun sneers Cross’s name.

“Cross seems like a man who would do that.” He lies back down in the cot, not caring for what Shaun would think. “He doesn’t have a problem with the actual bloodshed, does he?”

“He revels in it.” William hears disgust in Shaun’s voice. “I find it sickening how he’s the Head of the Naval Fleet. I mean, sure, he takes out _your poorly built forts_ for us no problem but he doesn’t have an issue taking all of us down with him either. He just gets off on it.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s the one manning the helm and ordering my men around. I can’t argue because he’s my superior. And he’ll probably skin me alive if I do. I really don’t wish to take that chance, General Miles.”

“I’ve lived to tell the tale, Captain Hastings. It’s not something you would even wish on your enemies.”

Shaun chuckles. “Well, I’m glad we have that mutual understanding, sir.”

The cabin is silent, but it is not an uncomfortable sort of silence. It is the sort of silence William would associate being around, well, acquaintances like Lafayette. Comrades, even. Odd how the world works.

“So, how _is_ Desmond exactly, General? Cross told us that you’ve been to see him before he captured you. I mean, aside from almost dying twice, I assume he’s doing well?”

“As well as he can be, Hastings. He’s— content, more than I’ve ever seen him actually.”

“Ah, good, good. He never was happy being here anyway, even more so when he got sent off to work for Cross. Almost dying at Fort George did wonders to him then!”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak of my failures so light-heartedly, Hastings.”

When William sits up, he sees Cross leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes glaring sharply at both of them. Shaun does not stiffen or flinch under his authority. If anything, he even has the audacity to snort and brush the dust off his shoulders nonchalantly. William almost laughs at watching this power play of theirs.

“I didn’t think that you would mind, Cross.”

“I don’t. Just make sure not to gossip about it with the hostage next time. Speaking of which, General—” Cross turns to William with that mad grin of his and William wants to punch his teeth in. “How are you finding the Commodore’s facilities?”

“I’ve been in piss poor districts with better beds,” he answers, raising his manacled wrists. “What the hell are you planning, Cross?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He doesn’t realise that Cross is _this_ close to his face in a blink of an eye with Shaun pushed against one of the barrels with his one hand while his other grips at the front of William’s shirt. William sneers at the warmth of Cross’s breath on his face. The grip on his shirt begins to cut into his skin.

“It’s quite simple really. Desmond comes around with the Aquila, and this small fleet of mine will _annihilate_ them. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to watch him burn to death before I throw you in with the rest of them. You’ll all be out of hair once and for all.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” he hisses, managing to push the man off of him. Cross dusts himself off and heads back to the door, letting both he and Shaun get their bearings back.

“What would that be, General?”

“This is Desmond you’re going up against. If he’s almost killed you once, you better be damn sure that he won’t mess up this time,” he says with such pride that he knows would make Haytham proud. Cross goes livid and his eyes narrow into slits before he slams the door closed so forcefully that the ropes hanging over their heads fall and hang lower.

Shaun actually laughs this time.

“I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing with a Continental, but I’m agreeing with a Continental.”

 

When it is much later at night and all the crew are asleep, Shaun nicks the keys from Cross’s desk and lets William walk about the deck like an actual guest instead of a prisoner. He finds himself dreading going back into the hold after seeing the moon play its cool light on the surface of the dark ocean.

For once, he actually wishes he can swim. Anything to get off this blasted ship and away from that daft bastard they call Daniel Cross.

* * *

 

_Two weeks after. New York._

Immediately after Clay’s arrival to the Homestead, the captains, first mates and the rest of the crews of both the Aquila and La Bravoure discussed plans to rescue Desmond’s father. The piece of map that Cross left in Clay’s tricorne directed them to the rocky seas of the Caribbean, off the coast of Grenada to be precise. Ezio and Lucy had explained its topography, the climate around this time of year, and how likely they were to be attacked by British ships and privateers while laying out a large map on the deck for all of them to look at.

Desmond also inputs Cross’s tendencies of bringing in an armada even for one small mission. And this rescue was as far from a small mission as they can get. They needed to restock their ammunition and charges.

Haytham offers to give them as much as they need for free to which Clipper, Desmond and Aveline almost smother him in return.

Neither he nor Clay had ever been to the Caribbean. And Haytham didn’t really count business trips to sell arms as an actual trip to enjoy the scenery. There had been too many bruises and too much alcohol for him to actually enjoy it at the time.

He had volunteered to escort Clay back to Valley Forge to inform the Continentals of William’s kidnapping but Washington was far from pleased. Lafayette had been more sympathetic, wishing them the best of luck and that he hopes to see William safe again. Putnam offered to see another charge into enemy territory if it would change anything and Lee, well, Lee couldn’t really care less. Church had been off somewhere gallivanting.

But Clay was told by Washington to consider himself discharged from the service. Haytham found himself sniggering in the most un-gentlemanly fashion when they rode off, Clay giving Washington _the one-fingered salute_ to which the other generals just laughed.

Haytham considers of hiring him for logistics when this whole mess was over, maybe even coercing William to be his business partner. Of course, that would be far too optimistic for him. All he wants right now is to see William safe.

He asked his men to watch over the business while was gone, business as usual as always. Keep providing arms to those who pay consistently, harass those who don’t. He trusts they will be able to keep up appearances for two months at most, after all, he’s raised them to function without him; all he hopes is that they do. Whatever they decide to do is something he’ll find out in two months’ time.

It is a dark and foggy morning in New York and they make sure to work quickly and disappear before the city wakes to find two of the most notorious pirate ships in the North Seas in its harbour. There would be chaos.

William won’t appreciate being delayed.

“Are you sure you want to come with us, Father?” Connor asks him upon their arrival, the crewmembers stacking the supplies he and Clay had bought with them back into the holds of the Aquila and La Bravoure.

 “You’ve asked me a number of idiotic questions, son. I think this, by far, is the worst one.” Before Connor can snap out an indignant reply, Haytham only passes him a crate filled with more munitions while he carries his own small crate of possessions and change of clothes enough to last him for the voyage. “I care for William the same way you care for your comrades. You really can’t expect me to sit by idly when I can be there to see him safe, can you?”

“No, I cannot. You are more of-” Connor hesitates, “A man of action.”

He smiles. “Well, I’m glad we’ve had this discussion. And really, do you think that I’d ride here in the dead of the morning and give _you pirates_ half my stock if you think I wasn’t sure about joining you? Do you think me a daft old fool, now?”

Connor gives a small smile before disappearing through the throng of his crew milling about who prepare to leave for Grenada, and Haytham already sees Aveline steering her ship out of the port, directing her men and women to ease La Bravoure’s dark sails to catch the gale that breezes about them.

Haytham knows that he won’t miss the winter. Perhaps the Caribbean would indeed be a good change, though none of them really are about to go sight-seeing. There is far too much ammunition involved.


	8. Chapter 8

_A month and a week after. The Commodore, on the Martinique Channel._

William Miles is, to simply put, a man of the land.

Never once in his life before this unwarranted arrest of his on the Commodore has he been at sea. And the fact that Desmond, his own son, dominated and survived the Earth’s treacherous waters is still something he cannot get over.

He feels pride for Desmond, of course, as fathers would. Haytham would be likely to have his head if he thought otherwise. This is going against the fact that Desmond _did_ work for the enemy of his commanders and subordinates and that Desmond _did_ work for the British Royal Navy and helped destroy _them_ at sea where William dare not tread. But yes, even though it’s taken years for him to realise it, Desmond is brave to have endured the sea all these years and William Miles is very much proud of his son.

The sea is unforgiving, and it will readily swallow them in the blink of an eye, leaving no trace. But the sea is also patient, it waits and it mocks, which makes William fear it all the more.

It is a foggy and unusually cold night for the Caribbean and Shaun is with him discussing the power of ales and rum quietly over candlelight. When the Commodore’s bells begin to toll mercilessly, his ears are assaulted by the sound of the crew preparing for an attack. Their shouts and screaming are ceaseless as they scramble to obey Cross’ commands in the distance and the dust from the aged wooden ceiling falls like ash on their faces as they listen. Shaun’s face visibly creases at the sound of the man’s orders in the distance.

William holds on to the hope of Desmond leading the charge on the Aquila with Connor’s crew.

Shaun is quick to move, grabbing him by the arm and helping him stand with one hand and checking for the keys to his chains from the inside pocket of his Captain’s coat with the other.

To say that William’s glad for Desmond being on amicable terms with this first flagship of his is an understatement. Otherwise, the chances of Desmond finding him dead on this blasted ship would have been much higher. He really doesn’t mean to be a pessimist, but the odds would not have been in his favour if Captain Shaun Hastings and the rest of the crew of the Commodore hated his son. He would have found a way to go, like he found ways to get his soldiers away from the growing piles of corpses that need to be buried from the battlefield.

Shaun’s instructions to him are stern and hurried, and the Captain’s hands are pulling him towards the door, ajar enough to reveal the crew members running around with barrels of gunpowder and muskets in the poorly candlelit hold of the ship.

William can hear cannons blaring in the distance and it is not soon after when the ship rumbles and he holds onto Shaun for support.

“There’s a small boat you can board that just might get you off this ship and away from this whole mess for the time being-”

They flinch when the cabin door bangs open, splinters of the aged wood hitting them softly. Cross stands on the other side, his pistol steadily aimed at them and his eyes glowering. His blonde hair as mussed underneath his tricorne and his normally immaculate red coat is wet and dirtied with gunpowder. Behind him, some of the soldiers watch them in fear, their hold on their respective muskets shaky and beads of sweat making sheen on their lamplit faces.

“Ah, Hastings, how nice of you to hand the General over without being ordered to. I’ll put your name in for a promotion when we get back, I’m sure the Old Man won’t have a problem with it.” Cross’ voice betrays no mania, no madness, no wry humour and William finds himself more wary of this man with a pistol pointed to the square of his face than of the man who taunted him all those weeks ago with a knife to his neck. Cross is a different soldier, an adaptive, merciless one. Even an assassin, if he had to be named.

“What the hell are you doing, Cross? Weren’t _you_ meant to be sailing this ship?” Shaun’s voice is defiant, but his hold on William’s arm tenses. Cross’ eyes narrow and soon, it is Shaun staring into the barrel of the gun.

“Last I recall the Commodore was commissioned _under your name_. Now, go on ahead and be a good captain, Shaun. Unless to want this whole ship to become a wreck quicker than you can blink an eye. You of all people know how well Desmond does his job, yes?”

William can hear Shaun seethe. He feels a last reassuring squeeze around his arm before Shaun marches out of the room, pushing Cross and cussing, ordering the men to get their act together and prepare the cannons.

“Sorry for the rude interruption, General, but you’re coming with me.”

His hand goes numb when Cross takes his arm in a vice-like grip. He is weak. While he could have put up a fight, perhaps throwing a punch to Cross’ jaw and making a break for it, pushing and running past all the soldiers and perhaps throwing himself off the ship as a quick way to go, the feeling of having a shot blasting into his back from his obvious malnourishment and vulnerability would foil that plan in an instant. Desmond would perhaps think, upon seeing his bleeding, slumped corpse that he had been brave, that he fought back for his freedom, but Desmond wasn’t stupid and neither was he. Like father, like son, after all.

It takes all his control not to spit at the man’s feet as he’s being hauled away, much to the gawking looks of the soldiers around them, helplessly watching, pitying him and fearing Cross.

“What in God’s name are you _fucking_ doing, you crazy bastard?!” he yells when Cross pushes pulls him deeper into the hold, down another level of the ship with rope already tightly bound around his wrists. He can only writhe when the man forces a kerchief around his mouth, the fabric gagging and choking him.

“I’ve got a surprise planned for Desmond, _sir_. I thought that you ought to see what it is before he does.” Cross is smiling, but his already dirty hands are turning darker as he sticks his hands into one of the open barrels of black gunpowder, scattering them evenly across the dank, wooden floor.

 

William feels himself slipping away, out of breath when another cannon shot rings out into the distance. He passes out the deafening sound of wood splintering over his head.

* * *

 

_A month and a week after. The Aquila, on the Martinique Channel._

It is amongst the fog and the fire of the Royal British Navy’s fresh shipwrecks when Desmond pulls Clipper aside, away from the heated cannon that’s just fired a solid round of heat shots not too long ago. Their faces are smeared and caked with gunpowder and sweat, and the rest of the Aquila sprint around them, muskets in hand and ammunition loaded. Even Connor’s hoarse voice calling for them to bear arms and Haytham arguing with him fall deaf to their ears because Clipper can only focus on the urgency present in Desmond’s eyes and the severity of the arms master’s grip on his shirt.

Desmond forces a loaded musket into Clipper’s blackened hand.

“Clipper, stay out of the battle. Whatever you do, stay off Commodore.”

Connor yells for full sail into the fogged night, and the bright flames of the Landis, now a shipwreck, are softened by the mist and the smoke. Clipper’s eyes cannot help but dart to the coats of red that tread water, some holding on to drift wood as they shield their eyes from the fire of their former vessel, others afloat poorly with their backs on the surface, dead, deceased.

“But Desmond, _sir_ -” The _‘sir’_ is something he cannot help but slip out. After everything Desmond’s been through with the Aquila, with them, he deserves it, he deserves the title and he deserves the respect. Clipper feels blessed to have met the man.

 _“Clipper, stay out of battle.”_ It’s an order if Clipper’s ever heard one. For a moment, Clipper sees the very master gunner who destroyed fleets and fleets of Continental and privateer ships, to the pride of the British Navy under the command of the most deranged captain to ever have been appointed under the Crown. “You told me you’re a good shot so you better damn prove it to me. _Stay above_ everything and keep an eye out for trouble, all right?”

Clipper wants to protest, but all of them instinctively duck and hide behind the balustrades of the broadside against a spray of grape shots from a nearby British schooner. They only rise when Connor smashes into the vessel mercilessly, but Desmond is already lost in the bustle and fray of sailors cheering on and commending their captain. Clipper fails to locate him.

He hears Altair yelling for them to bring the ship to half-sail.  He hears the Captain arguing with his father, and the elder Kenway’s demands for someone with more experience to man the helm carrying over the noise of another shot being readied. He sees a glimpse of La Bravoure amidst the smoke and fog and dark of the night in the distance, annihilating another set of schooners.

But Desmond is nowhere to be seen.

 

Clipper’s grip tightens on his musket and he exhales. _Stay above everything and keep an eye out for trouble._ He intends to do so, and he intends to do right by Desmond. He looks up to the mainmast to see the stars peeking out from a frame of clouds and smoke and he wonders how long it will take for him to climb up without getting shot at.

No one sees when he climbs.

* * *

 

_A month and a week after. The Commodore, on the Martinique Channel._

Shaun is torn with leaving General William Miles under the ‘care’ of his deranged superior and making sure his ship isn’t going to be all but annihilated within the next few minutes by the Aquila. All about him, his crew are yelling panic over the creaking wood of the ship and the great splintering sound coming from the mainmast on the deck above.

Chain shots to masts. Immobilization. Take no prisoners.

He doesn’t call for his sailors to bear arms when he climbs up the stairs, crawling almost, with this head down like the rest of his crew, holding their muskets and hiding in crevices of barrels of gunpowder and ale and destroyed crates of black tea. They look up at him, their usually calm but cynical captain, Shaun Hastings, with his glasses skewed and his eyes filled with what they know to be the hyperawareness a man gets when he knows he’s about to die.

The Aquila peeks through the moonlit fog, appearing, disappearing, and mocking them. Shaun’s mouth gives away profanity that he knows would make his dear mother faint when he sees that the Aquila is not the only ship circling them, the second ship is one he’s seen before, trawling the Caribbean with its dark sails. They are very much receptive to the pitiful state the Commodore’s found itself in.

All because of that god damned Daniel Cross.

The Commodore is a British cargo vessel for Christ’s sake. They deliver tea to and from the Caribbean to the Colonies. And it was the damn best tea that the New World ever did get and Shaun will not go down because of Daniel Cross and all his absurdity.

He peels off his first mate, Gavin, from the helm and he can only watch as the younger man slumps against the bannisters of the quarter deck, hands shakily holding his spyglass and following the Aquila as it disappears again into the fog.

“What do we do, Captain?!” Gavin inquires hysterically. “If they’re going to sink us, then god help us-”

“They’re not going to sink us, you twat! ALL RIGHT, WEIGH THE ANCHORS AND RAISE A WHITE FLAG FOR GOD’S SAKE!” Shaun bellows to the crew, his throat going hoarse.

“But we don’t have a white flag, sir-” Gavin sputters, before trailing off into uncertainty when he sees Shaun’s hands tightening on the helm.

 

“We better damn make a white flag then, shouldn’t we?”

* * *

 

_A month and a week after. The Aquila, on the Martinique Channel._

Muskets and flintlocks are raised when the crew of the Aquila walk aboard the deck of the Commodore. Swords sharp against British throats and glares plentiful from the crewmembers of the Aquila to the terrified redcoats. Some hang from the shrouds and the bowlines of the Commodore, looming over the crowd, while others remain on the deck of the Aquila not too far off, both ships creak eerily to the ebbing of the sea the heavy creaking is the only sound that hangs in the air. Malik and Clay stand with the rest of them, their hands gripping the railing of the Aquila steadily.

La Bravoure and the Aquila flank the poor vessel left and right, and Desmond can see Aveline holding a hand up to keep the crew from boarding the vessel.

The soldiers do not even raise their weapons, only their arms, their hands palms up, clammy with sweat and caked in gunpowder. Some had even hid and wrapped the torn white sail around themselves like a blanket for protection. It’s been used as a white flag, as Connor had let Desmond view from the spyglass not too long ago.

Desmond knows that it is not cowardice that keeps these men from raising their pistols and firing at them that no sooner will turn the deck into a smoke-filled bloodbath. Captain Shaun Hastings was not so ignorant and dim, and Desmond knows his first captain’s wit all too well.

“Desmond Miles, back from the dead, eh?”

All of them bring their guns to the voice that’s spoken amidst the silence, Connor, Haytham, Altair, him—

“Shaun?”

The soldiers move from the end of their barrels, parting and dividing and leaving the aged wood underneath their feet bare to the gathering rain. Shaun Hastings stands on deck, alone, surrounded by the sea of empty space with all the pistols and muskets pointed at him. He holds his tricorne in one hand and waves at Desmond nervously with the other.

“Hello, Desmond.”

With the man’s glasses askew on his face, his short red hair mussed and his face caked with dirt, Desmond almost doesn’t recognize him. But his voice still remains to be very much British and his eyes still speak volumes of one being holier-and-more-knowledgeable-than-thou. Desmond honestly wants to say that he’s missed having Shaun Hastings as a captain.

Instead, an insult is what he hisses, very loud and audible over all of them. “You idiot. Where is _he_?”

Shaun scoffs and throws his tricorne in the dirt. When he raises his arm to pull back his sleeve, his wrist is tied with white cloth. _White flag, we surrender._ “Well, I’m sorry if I can’t answer your question, Desmond. I’ve been far too preoccupied with making sure my ship doesn’t get blasted by all you lot—”

“Would you accept _parley_ then?” Haytham cuts off behind all of them, pistol lowered. Desmond sees flickering amongst the eyes of the Aquila’s crewmembers, surprise, then frustration, then patience. It is a waiting game. Parley, negotiations, the old sailors have spoken tales of it more often than Desmond could recall. Pirates’ negotiations that usually would result in less to no bloodshed yet all the riches kept would be taken—

Connor does not hide his own shock, and Desmond wonders why before he remembers that the Kenways had not the chance to be a family like he and his father did. Haytham’s voice is calm, negotiable. Desmond would even go as far to say that the older man’s being charismatic, like he’s been negotiating one of his own arms trades. “Give us back General Miles and that daft bastard Daniel Cross in exchange for the remaining safety of all of you. We won’t touch even a single hair on any of your heads, isn’t that right, Connor?”

“Yes.”

The tone that Shaun takes is something Desmond’s been very familiar with. Anger, impatience, frustration. “What and I’m guessing that the casualties from the Landis and the Adventra were a sad mistake—”

“Bite your tongue,” Altair threatens, flintlock unwavering aimed at Shaun’s defiance before Connor gestures for him to stand down.

“You know what, you can have him. Search the god damned ship for him, I know he’s still under the hold and have my men help you if you want, Desmond. It’ll make the search much easier,” Shaun exhales. He is tired and Desmond can see the bags underneath his eyes. The years have been hard on him, on them both. “He’s been nothing but trouble for me and my crew since day one, Desmond. You can have him for all I care. Perhaps even inform my superiors that he’s been killed in action—”

A gunshot cracks in the air, and the next moment, Shaun is crippled in the dirt, breaths ragged and Desmond runs to him. He presses his hands hard against where Shaun’s arm bleeds dangerously. The silence flees to make room for the plethora of safeties being unbolted from pistols and muskets, and arms pointed everywhere and nowhere. Connor stands over them, aiming his steady flintlock into the face of a terrified British sailor.

“I appreciate your concern, Hastings, but I did tell Vidic that I _wasn’t_ going to fuck up this time.”

They turn around to see Daniel Cross emerging from the hold, his pistol’s barrel smoking in one hand and a very battered and unconscious William Miles hung limp over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

Desmond sees red when he hears Cross speaking to him, the man’s eyes calm and casual. “Hello, Desmond.”

And yet, before Desmond can throw his bloody hands around Cross’s throat, never mind getting shot at point blank and have his own blood splattering his face, another gunshot rings in the air, this time more distant, and Cross swears loudly as his pistol falls to the ground.

Then Desmond remembers. Clipper.

_“You told me you’re a good shot so you better damn prove it to me. Stay above everything and keep an eye out for trouble, all right?”_

When he looks up at the mainmast of the Aquila, he sees the glint of a bayonet reflecting the moonlight and a man crouched in the crow’s nest. A set of arms pull William to safety and Desmond’s bloody hands soon find the front of Cross’ coat.

“Hello, Cross,” he spits murderously with a grin. He’s never been happier to see his old captain.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the delay of this. How long has it been? Months? It feels like years, decades even. For that I really am sorry, dear reader. But thank you so much for your support if you've read up to here and have remained steadfast in waiting.
> 
> This story has almost reached its end, and I thank you for being here to read it.


	9. Chapter 9

_A month and a week after, the Commodore, on the Martinique Channel._

Desmond counts how many breaths he’s taken.

One. Haytham catches William the moment Cross’ pistol lands on the deck of the Commodore in a bloody, gritty mess. Cross’ face flares with pain, eyes unfocussed and curses are stringing out from his mouth much, much quicker than his hand bleeds. Desmond watches as Haytham easily supports his father, but William’s so much thinner and frailer than he was a month ago; the father Desmond had embraced good-bye for the battlefield was war-hardened and the man’s eyes were full of relief at seeing him again after nine years but the man Haytham holds against his shoulder is anything but. Desmond’s lips curl bitterly because William can barely lift his arm to keep himself on Haytham.

Two. When he takes his vice-like grip from Shaun’s bleeding arm to hold and pin Cross down against the water-aged timber, Connor carries Shaun, who’s ragged breathing is laced with curses and profanity that Desmond’s all too familiar with. Desmond hears Connor instructing Altair to send his old captain to Malik for treatment on the Aquila. Almost immediately, Connor’s voice is drowned out by more of Shaun’s maddened cries.

Three. Desmond finds his arm pressing heavily against Cross’ chest, feeling the man’s torn gasps and restless spasms. He can feel Cross’ other hand clawing at his back feebly when he takes the man’s bleeding hand and twists it against the wood of the deck. The man’s breaths are hot against his face, and the metallic tang of gunpowder drowns out the smell of the sea. When he looks into the mad captain’s eyes, he’s expected to see defeat, but instead he sees quiet triumph.

Four. Cross’ voice is almost a purr and Desmond finds himself twisting the man’s bleeding hand harder. “Come on, Desmond, be _gentle_ -”

“You don’t deserve it, you bastard.”

Desmond counts four breaths. He counts four of his own mingled with the sound of the creaking ship on the sea, and the murmuring of the crew about them, watching, waiting.

Four breaths before his ears begin to ring from the Commodore’s hold erupting in fire and of men screaming and great aged wood of the ship cracking.

His ears register nothing but the ringing. Yet Desmond feels everything as the wood underneath their feet splits and cracks. He feels the splinters and debris falling harshly against his back, and he feels Cross’ feet kicking heavily into his gut and pushing him off. When he lands, the frantic footsteps of men panicking beating on the deck disappear. All he hears is the blind ringing in his ears and all he feels are the hands curling around his throat, wet and cold and slick with what he knows to be blood.

Instead of the sight of the great masts of the Commodore cracking behind Cross’s deranged grin, he sees Fort George again. The walls collapsing, and the rope thick and rough around his throat, choking him as his hands are tied, and all those coats of red running, running all for their safety and leaving him behind on the gallows—

The hands around this throat curl tighter and all he can do is to blindly grasp at Cross’ arms as the edge of his vision, flickering from Fort George to Cross’ maddening grin, begins to blacken.

Snarling, Desmond brings his feet up, fighting against all the weight that Cross’ presses down on him, and forces a good kick to the man’s gut. He hears his own heart throbbing in his ears when he turns and forces himself up, coughing from the hands that were around his throat.

Desmond’s vision begins to clear and he sees the British soldiers, being guided off the wreck of the Commodore by Connor’s men— _his men_ , and onto the Aquila and La Bravoure. He sees glimpses of Connor in-between gaps in the debris as the captain supports an old sailor by the arm. Desmond spots Altair following behind him with a bleeding conscript in his arms. The shrill ringing in his ears eases to the sound of men yelling, _for Connor yelling at him to get out_ and of flames gathering and crackling –

Between them is a gaping hole on deck, brimming with burning timber and the bodies of unfortunate British soldiers crushed from the rubble. The growing flames of the fire gather in the hold underneath their feet and Desmond can feel the heat of it drying the blood on hands. His eyes narrow when they focus on Cross doubled over, coughing and holding his bloody hand near the edge.

The wood grows more weakened in each step that he finds himself taking as he stalks to the mad captain, hands curling into fists.

His bloodstained knuckles take Cross’ dirt-caked cheeks easily, once, twice, thrice, until he loses count and the pale face he snarls into is bruised and bleeding. Desmond takes Cross by the coat and holds him out over the edge of the fire.

When Cross struggles and raises his bloody hands to claw at his arms, Desmond sends another solid punch to his face. His hands are steady when he holds Cross’ shirt, making the man tip over the edge precariously.

He’s killed men before, sadly. Shot them, stabbed them with sabres, but this he can say would be the first time he’s thrown someone into a fire.

“Not a chance that I can ask you to go easy on me, Miles?” Cross exhales, and the fire is lapping at the wood beneath his feet. He flinches when Desmond loosens his grip on his shirt suddenly.

The wood groans underneath them and Desmond can see in the corner of his vision the sides of the Aquila brimming with men watching them anxiously, the flames bright in their eyes.

“You _don’t_ deserve it, Cross,” he spits and his own voice is hoarse, rough like the thick rope that was once around his throat—

Cross’ eyes leave his and travel higher, past his head. Desmond doesn’t need to whirl around to recognize the sound of the mizzenmast cracking behind him and collapsing. He looks up the sight of the sails and shrouds falling into the cracked deck, the flames riding up the ropes, and when his hold on the front of Cross’ shirt loosens, the mad captain clutches at his arm and forces them away from the widening crack on the flaming deck. Desmond hears distant yelling from the Aquila drowned out the sound of fires crackling underneath the deck they cling to.

Cross’ bloody hand drags his arm as the deck begins to tip inwards, splintering from the weight of the collapsed mizzenmast, and they run from it. They run, pushing their feet against the tilted floor and away from the fire that eats at the wood and debris around them. Desmond’s sleeve is drenched with the blood from Cross’ hand.

Cross is not so kind to save him. Not after everything that’s happened. So as the Commodore slowly sinks,  he feels a good, strong kick to his gut before he can even get his bearings back and stand up. Then Cross takes his face in hand and the man’s nails are digging into his cheeks. The flame playing brightly in Cross’ eyes make him look like the devil, mad, insane. “I guess you’re right, Desmond. After everything I’ve done to you, you’d be pathetic to go easy on me.”

So he doesn’t.

He bites down hard on Cross’ hand and he tastes blood, salted sweat and a hint of gunpowder. Then he forces a punch to Cross’ nose before the man can recoil from his teeth. His hands close around the man’s throat steadily but their feet are unsure to the slanting of the weakening timber beneath their feet makes. Desmond hisses when he and Cross crash into the collapsed railing of the Commodore.

His mouth is wet with the metallic tang of Cross’ blood.

He can hear the Aquila yelling over his head, telling him to get off the wreckage and leave Cross dead—

The pain flares and blinds him, and the ringing in his ears return when Cross takes a fist to his face and his left cheek is numb and he can feel his lip split open and bleeding.

“You’re a right persistent bastard, aren’t you? I had the chance to kill you three times, Miles! I guess I was right taking you from Hastings because _you are a fighter._ ”

He breathes harshly through his teeth, past the pain yet before he can force an elbow to the side of Cross’ face, the railing holding them cracks. The breaths leave their lungs and Desmond’s too familiar with the sensation of falling.

The air is cold, and he can feel the rain gathering, grazing at his face, pattering. The wind tears at his clothes and his skin is ice where it is slick with blood.

And it is as quick as it comes. Just as the surprise of it leaves him breathless, the cold seawater slaps and salts his wounds before engulfing him. The sound of the fires burning and the Commodore crumbling and of him slamming into the water disappear into the dark hum of the calm below the surface. His eyes force themselves open and he lets out a small gasp at the stinging salt.

At first Desmond sees only the bubbles that come from his mouth against the dark of the water. Then the orange light from the flames on the Commodore piercing through the thick veil of the sea. Then the debris that sink from the surface.

His arms feel heavy, and he pushes himself closer to the surface, keeping his eyes on the titian light above.

More bubbles drift past him and he can feel his chest contracting at the lack of air. But when bubbles begin to rise faster and he’s not letting any more breaths go, he looks down swiftly to where they’d come from.

And he sees Cross’ bruised, bloody face staring up at him blankly—

Dead—

But a hand closes around his ankle, firm, like a ball and chain, and Desmond yells, and the air leaving his lungs when Cross pulls both of them deeper into the sea. His thrashes are slowed, his breathing ragged, mouth and throat filled with water and Cross is looking up at him, the mania fading from his eyes and the sneer reducing to nothing. Yet the hand around his ankle unyielding and the weight pulling them down is heavier, Desmond can feel the current gathering.

He kicks at Cross’ corpse, but he sees spots, the dark sea is beginning to blacken around the edges.

His chest is tight, and his body feels like concrete, his heart beating loud in his ears. His arms are lead, and he wants to push himself upwards, get back to the surface to see the orange flames glow brighter—

The last of his breath leaves his mouth and the water fills him, like ice, like daggers, tangy, salty, the taste of the sea—

He chokes on the water, but no air comes out. He sees no bubbles. He counts no breaths. None.

When he looks up, he sees nothing but black. No orange of the flames, no debris falling.

So he does not see the hand that reaches out to grab his shirt and pulls him upwards.

* * *

 

_Two months after, St. John’s, Antigua._

The night air is cold, even in the tropics of the Caribbean. As Haytham quietly rides through the dusty streets of St. John’s, his left hand clutches the reigns of his horse steadily while his right settles atop the grip of his pistol. The port city is still bustling, busy not with common folk of men and women who wish to purchase wares for their masters’ homes but of British soldiers who stand on high alert with their muskets raised and loaded.

News of the Cross’ demise and of the Commodore’s sinking had already spread to these parts of the Caribbean.

He manages an indifferent stare to the brigades of soldiers who turn their heads at the sight of him riding alone. No man dares to raise their pistols at him, not after the Aquila had brought back the remaining crew of the Commodore, and their injured captain, the bespectacled Shaun Hastings.

The port city’s cannons would have fired at them had it not been for Shaun’s testimony of the Aquila being a merciful enemy. Their hands had been raised in the air and the British’ muskets pointed at them when they’d docked, and Haytham had already counted how many of them he can shoot before ducking behind a barrel. But Shaun had been adamant, telling them everything, of Cross being mentally unstable and psychotic, and that the losses out at sea were his fault. The Commodore’s crew had testified against the mad captain as well and the Aquila and La Bravoure were given passage.

Shaun and the rest of the Commodore had thanked them, the captain of the Commodore thanking the captain of the Aquila for his clemency and sealing the peace with a handshake.

“I didn’t know pirates could be so– gracious,” Shaun breathed uncertainly, being the last man to step off the ship with his arm in a sling.

“Desmond spoke kind of you, Hastings. And you treated General Miles well, despite Cross’ tyranny on your ship,” Connor replied, as though merely stating a fact. Haytham had to laugh at how straightforward his son was being. “Any friend of Desmond’s is a friend of ours,”

“Ah, well then,” Shaun coughs. “Thank you to all of you. Is, ah, is Desmond going to be all right?”

His tone laced with uncertainty, the concern of an old friend.

“He’s going to be all right, Shaun. You know him,” William calls out from the deck, as if to reassure not only Shaun but himself as well.

Then the captain of the Commodore was gone with a nod at them, escorted by the British troops who dropped their muskets’ aims from their heads and walked off port.

William had gone back to the Colonies, on La Bravoure where Aveline had promised to take care of the recuperating general and to see him safe and nourished back to health. La Bravoure had stocked up on various resources, amongst them foodstuffs and more ammunition. William had joked that he hopes the girls don’t feed him both as he recovers back all that weight he’s lost through that month out at sea.

“I’ve no doubt that they’d make the meals any less than what we’d feasted back at Connor’s homestead.”

William smiles. “Ah, true that.”

They’d spoken by candle light, quietly as Desmond had remained asleep and William had held his son’s inked hand tightly. Haytham’s never seen William like this, never seen the quiet gentleness that he sees now as the man straightens out the blankets on Desmond’s softly breathing form and takes a hand to softly brush the wavy hairs on Desmond’s head.

He’s never doubted that William cares for his son so he is not surprised, only saddened.                

“You’re sure that you can’t stay?” Haytham asks as William stands up, squeezing Desmond’s hand for the last time and leaving a soft kiss on his forehead. Haytham sees small creases forming on Desmond’s brow when his father’s lips graze it.

“I have a war to go back to, Haytham,” William exhales, before walking with Haytham following, back to the door, the wood creaking in protest with every step that they make. William casts a long look over his shoulder back at Desmond before taking the door handle and pulling it open, letting both of them outside. “They can’t do any much worse there than what they’ve done to me here, you know.”

“I know.”

He meets Connor’s gaze, his own son eyeing them curiously while he watches sentinel at the door with his tricorne off. The marksman who disarmed Cross, Clipper, stands guard on the other side of the doorway.

Haytham had sighed, held his arms open and felt William’s frame fall into him and they’d embraced good-bye before Clipper escorted him out of the clinic they’d found themselves in.

That had been five days ago.

Haytham rides back alone, from the port brimming with British soldiers and back to the isolated clinic whose doctor they’ve paid more than generously to keep the clinic open for them and only them. The British troops thin out less and less with each decrepit dwelling that he passes, and instead of pistols and apprehensive eyes that watch him from the streets, he sees poorer residents of the town following him with their fear-filled eyes from their shabby windows.

The clinic at the end of the street is not lit, and it fades into the houses flanking it left and right. Almost everything looks to be perpetually covered in dust, kicked up into the air from all of the feet walking and running, day and night. There is a horse hitched to the post holding the clinic’s side up and Haytham recognizes it as Connor’s.

He hears footsteps inside, of Connor speaking to the black doctor, telling the old man that he can be paid more coin for his troubles—

“No, son. Please this— what you and your friends have given me is more than enough to last me,” the old man laughs. “Hell, I might even be dead before I can spend even half of it.”

“Still, we all thank you for your hospitality and the care you’ve given to Desmond.”

“I’m a doctor, son. That’s what I do.”

Then Haytham hears more footsteps and Desmond’s rough voice coughing. “He’s better than Malik in the way that he doesn’t put the bandages too tight. Don’t tell him I said that, Connor. I think he’ll skin me alive with a scalpel if he finds out.”

When Haytham knocks on the wooden door, five raps, three to a beat and two that trail off, they go silent. He manages a scoff from through the door and knocks again, the five distinct taps. “Connor, it’s me, open the door. I can hear Desmond up and sounding right so you might as well let me in.”

The footsteps that respond to his are quick and light and when the door opens inwards, Connor meets him with a churlish pout that he responds only with a smug grin. “Thank you.”

“You’re not going tell Malik, right, Haytham?” Desmond asks, holding his coat closed where his bandages are hidden underneath.

“Of course not, not after Connor paid that gentleman over there all that coin to have you fixed up,” he reassures, gesturing to the old man sitting by his shelves brimming with tomes and of bottles and bottles of herbs and bandages. The old man’s kind eyes smile at him. “It would be a disrespect to destroy his handiwork.”

“I recommend getting some more bed rest, son, and try not to move around too much,” the old doctor says to Desmond sternly, but he scoffs halfway. “But I take it that you boys aren’t the type to sit back and let the sea pass you by.”

“Not by a long shot, sir,” Connor answers, and Haytham can hear the smile in his son’s voice.

The old man sees them off, quietly reprimanding Desmond and his carelessness as he shakily takes up his seat behind Connor on the horse. Then they are gone, the clinic fading from view amidst the dark of the night and the dusty buildings on the street.

“I’m glad I found you both before you left,” Haytham admits, glancing behind when they follow him. The streets fill again with soldiers slowly, and more eyes fall on them as they pass. “Else, I’d have ridden all the way out here for nothing.”

“We wouldn’t wait for you, father,” Connor deadpans, and Desmond jolts up behind him, eyes darting between them uncertainly. Then Connor chuckles. “The Aquila waits for no man.”

“Glad to know my own son would leave me in the Caribbean at a moment’s notice.”

Then Haytham brings a hand to his belt, where his pouch is hidden underneath his cape. He feels the soft, folded parchment, familiar to him even before he’d known of Connor’s existence. He pulls his mare to a halt and hands the folded paper across to them. Desmond takes it over Connor’s shoulder. “What a shame that would have been, son. Marooned me off to an island, not knowing that I had this gem in my possession.”

Haytham’s smirk blooms as he watches the awe gathering on their faces. Connor traces the parchment with a finger in the very spot he remembers tracing all those years ago.

“What is this a map to? Where did you get this—” Connor sputters.

“It was from my father. You boys would know of him, both of you being men of the sea and all.” He falls deaf to the little grief that he hears in his voice.

“No— you’re joking, right?” Desmond exhales, running a hand through his hair before giving Connor a pointed look. “Please tell me your dad’s messing with us.”

“Edward Kenway.” His own father’s name passes from his son’s mouth like a soft breath, of magnanimous realization but it is foreign, alien.  He had not heard his father’s name be spoken in decades, it was a name written upon history only to be erased over time like all names are.

“Glad to see you’ve made the connection, son.”

“Why show this to us? Why _now?”_ Connor presses, words growing harsher and harsher with peaking interest.

“Personal interest. And now because I really ought not to distract you with maps of hidden things when we were going off to help your father, Desmond.” When he reaches over to take the map back from them while their eyes still glossing over it, they snatch it away from his grasp and he almost wants to regret showing the map to them on account that they’d tear it—

No, who was he fooling? He wants to find out where that map leads to as much as they do, perhaps even more in fact.

“Do you know what it leads to though?” Desmond asks, and they start their horses walking again, slowly when the ears of the soldiers about them perk up with interest. Haytham glares at a soldier who keeps his eyes and musket on the map in Connor’s hand.

“I don’t. My father— he just left it behind in possession before his death.”

He remembers the fires, his mother and sister screaming. Unsheathing his own blade as he snuck about the house he grew up in. His mother’s wide eyes as he cuts a man down in front of her more swiftly than he though himself able. He shakes his head clear.

“Now, if you boys aren’t so interested in it anymore, hand it back over and we can all go back to the Colonies and get on with our lives. God knows how big of a mess my men have left for me when I get back you know.”

Connor laughs, as though he can see right through him, and can see that he wants this just as much as they do. His son folds the map carefully but he does not pass it back to him, and instead, Haytham can only watch carefully as the map disappears in Connor’s inner coat pocket. Then he turns back to ask Desmond to hang tight before snapping the reigns and forcing his steed forward into the crowd, and Haytham grits his teeth at the sound of the British guard turning on high-alert with their muskets and pistols loading.

He follows after them swiftly. His breaths are harsh through his teeth but his heart beats loudly in his ears from the adrenaline. He ducks when the muskets and pistols take aim and open fire at him. He coughs at the dust that his mare kicks up into the air but he laughs. He laughs when he shoots a glance over his shoulder to see a contingent of the British soldiers chasing after him, and he laughs when they take aim and miss yet he feels the lead whizz past his hat.

* * *

 

_Two months after, the Aquila on the Antiguan port city of St. John’s_

While Connor is usually met with the cheer of his crew by the time he returns to man the helm on the Aquila, this is not the first time that those cheers are replaced with a call to arms. Cannons from the port city have already begun firing at them, and the seawater sprays their faces as the pull the bowlines free from their knots.

Altair scowls as he squints into the length of the spyglass he holds, seeing his young captain sprinting with his father and the bandaged arms master in his wake.

Then he sees the swarm of red with their muskets aimed behind them, some already sprinting ahead with sabres drawn.

“MAKE THE SHIP FOR FULL SAIL!” he yells as another wayward cannon shot splashes mere metres away from them. “AND GET THE LADDER READY IN CASE THEY DON’T MAKE THE JUMP!”

Clay remains to still be a reluctant participant in their adventures, and though he doesn’t voice his concerns, Malik and Altair are permitted to read him easier than most people. The ex-foot soldier manages a scoff out of disbelief. “In case they don’t make it? They look more than capable, even Desmond—”

“Oh, it’s happened before. BRACE!”

He holds the helm steady, feeling the great ship begin to pick up the pace in the water, and shots are showering around them. They all duck and he can see Connor, Desmond and Haytham jumping off the docks and stepping swiftly across the poles and pillars that jut out from the water to catch up with them. The air is saturated with the smell of the sea and the lingering waft of gunpowder. A set of shots fire and Altair exhales at the sound of lead bouncing from the reinforcements.

When arms reach of from the side of the deck, quickly pulled up are Desmond, Haytham and Connor, in that order, looking no less worse for wear and the crew cheers once they see their captain on board. Altair does not, and while he moves aside to let the younger man take the helm, the takes off his hat and hits the back of Connor’s head with it. He is pleased when Connor flinches.

But Connor does not speak a word, only pulling out a slip of paper from his coat pocket and passing it to Altair. Small British corvettes already follow in their wake and Altair guesses it has something to do with the map that he unfurls.

Connor tells him otherwise and Desmond laughs with him. “They do not appreciate being trampled on by horses.”

But they do not fire any shots, and Connor keeps them aware, changing course and riding the strong winds that flow it from the sea, cutting through the waters of the Caribbean much, much faster than the corvettes can follow. The wind tears at their clothes and breezes into them, feeling them with the nice cold and Altair could hear Desmond sighing against it, murmuring to Connor that he’s missed the sea, that the dreams of it were not enough.

When they are alone in the great open water, and the British seem to have given up on teaching them not to trample on people with horses, Connor lets Altair unfurl the map for all of them to see.

The crew cheers, rum is passed, but Connor makes sure that they do not dock on the next spit of land being purely intoxicated. Malik keeps the still recuperating arms master from imbibing too much in the drink and Desmond spites him mockingly for the rest of the evening.

Amognst the chatter and the singing on deck, Altair hears of Connor speaking to his father of the map, of how it had come from his father, and Altair knows who it is. Sailing seems to be in Connor’s blood.

When he stands on the platform of the mainmast, a bottle of rum in hand and his tricorne in the other, Altair stands to speak, to tell a stories of a man whom many of them have listened to years and years and years ago but have forgotten as the seas have grown more recreant. Altair notices that the Kenways have stopped their conversation to listen to him, and the elder Kenway waits.

He waits like a child to hear stories of his father’s adventures.

Altair humours the older man but he blames the alcohol.

“We were all younger once, and we’ve heard tales of the Golden Age passed down by the men who knew these waters— no, the men who _survived_ these waters before us. I hear some of you say that we have missed it, missed the Golden Age, that we have been too late. But now we sail the path of a pirate who had come long before us, men. And what a path that has been. He’s sailed with Blackbeard and Hornigold and Vane and all the rest, forged alliances across the Caribbean and his ship, the Jackdaw headed a strong, tightly-knit fleet. He was remarkable, brave, defiant and we knew him as Edward Kenway.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading even up to here, dear reader. This concludes the beginning of Desmond's journey with the crew of the Aquila and of the assassins at sea. I hope you enjoyed following this as I have enjoyed taking up the challenge of writing it.
> 
> Although I must admit, even I did not see the hook of another chapter in their journey coming. But I thank you sincerely for following this and helping see it grow as I write it. I am very grateful and thank you for your time.


End file.
